In the Black
by Ieyre
Summary: Regulus survives the cave and goes to his older brother for help. He strikes a deal with Dumbledore: the Horcrux in exchange for his family's protection. Sirius, meanwhile, is faced with his toughest mission yet: managing his estranged parents, who find they like having both their sons back and are prepared to use all their cunning to make this temporary family reunion permanent.
1. Part One

_To the Dark Lord -_

 _I know I will be dead long before you read this, but I want you to know that it was I who discovered your secret. I have stolen the real Horcrux and intend to destroy it as soon as I can. I face death in the hope that when you meet your match, you will be mortal once more._

 _-R.A.B_

 _\- J.K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince_

 **PART ONE**

"You're going to be fine," Lily told the shivering boy on the sofa, for about the fifteenth time that hour. "Help will be coming soon."

Regulus stirred feebly. He was weak—terribly weak, and they had not been able to get much of anything out of him yet.

"Sirius…" he murmured, weakly. "He's going to be angry with me."

She frowned.

"Of course he's not—"

"I didn't think I was going to live," Regulus explained, apropos of nothing. "At first I told Kreacher not to…tell them—and now…"

A coughing fit cut off the end of his sentence. Lily patted him on the shoulder in what she hoped was a soothing way.

"You're safe now," she assured him—not knowing who or what 'Kreacher' was, she felt there was little she could do to offer comfort on that score. "Sirius has gone to fetch help, he'll be back soon—"

"You don't understand," Regulus said, more urgently. "I…called for him and he came, brought me—he knows where I am now—so they will—"

"Who?" she said, with a spike of alarm. "The Death Eaters—?"

"No, not them, _Kreacher,_ and it doesn't matter what I've ordered him to _say_ , he can bring them here—"

"Who…?"

There was a loud banging on the front door of the flat, and the flash of anxiety in Regulus's face told her her question was about to be answered.

"You…" He coughed again. "You might as well open the door, they're going to blast their way in if you don't."

He spoke perfectly calmly, even wryly—and instantly Lily knew that it was not Death Eaters who sounded like they were about to break down the door of Sirius's flat.

She rose and swiftly crossed to the door, murmured the enchantment to unlock it, and turned the handle. Instantly the door burst open, and a middle-aged witch shoved past Lily unceremoniously, a tall, dark-haired wizard close at her heels.

The woman, dressed in an old-fashioned, high-necked dress and magnificent ermine cloak, instantly bee-lined for Regulus and knelt over him on the sofa. Her sharp eyes took in the whole picture swiftly.

"What has—the elf told us nothing, only where to find you—" She felt his forehead and turned back around to look at the man. "Orion, he's _burning up_."

"Mother…" Regulus murmured, and Lily saw she was squeezing his hand so tightly it was turning white.

"You—girl," Mr. Black—for he could be no one else—rounded on Lily imperiously. "What has happened to him? How did he end up here?"

"We don't know," she said, closing the door and re-locking it. "He only got here a little while ago, he wasn't quite—he's only now in his right mind again…"

"What does _that_ mean, 'in his right mind'?" Orion Black demanded, angrily.

"He wasn't making sense at all, it was some kind of dark magic…" He glowered at her. Lily would have found it disconcerting enough to speak to him if he didn't look exactly like an older, better-dressed (handsome forest-green robes, in his haste he had forgotten his cloak) and impeccably groomed version of his elder son. "…He's just come 'round again."

Regulus's mother let go of her young son's hand at last. She stood up and turned around, at last acknowledging Lily's presence—though from her haughty once-over, it was obvious to the younger woman that she was only doing so because circumstance demanded it, and even then, with the greatest reluctance.

" _Who_ did this to him?" Mrs. Black asked, in a voice of extremely forced calm that Lily found more frightening than if she had been yelling. The middle-aged witch seemed to have perfected the art of looking down her nose. " _Who_?"

"We don't know—please, help is coming soon—"

There was the sound of loud stomping in the kitchen—someone stumbling, as if they'd apparated a little short of their mark and were surprised—and then a voice called out a loud, bark-like greeting.

The expression said voice elicited from Mrs. Black told Lily that, if everything that had happened up until now had been unpleasant, it was about to get much worse.

"I'm back—Dumbledore's coming, Lily!" Sirius called. "He's coming quickly, he just had to warn—shit, sorry, I'm bleeding all over the effing floor—"

"What are you _bleeding_ for?" she shouted, momentarily ignoring the wand now pointed in her face (difficult, when the fingers around it were gripping it so tightly.)

"I got—jumped in Hogsmeade—" She could hear him shuffling around—probably looking for the salve she had made for him, since he tended to be more reckless in Death Eater run-ins than the rest of them, often sporting minor injuries. His parents had frozen in a tableau of mingled horror and fury. "It was stupid, I was being careless, wanting to get back here so fast—has he told you anything—?"

Sirius, sporting a gigantic cut across his face and a gash on his arm, strode casually into the living room—and immediately stopped. The blood-soaked towel he had haphazardly wrapped around his forearm dropped uselessly to the floor.

Mrs. Black was the first one to move. Lily was relieved that the witch's wand was no longer pointed at her, but alarmed to see it turned on Sirius, who stared blankly at his mother, still bleeding rather badly onto the wooden floor of his flat.

"You—" she said, in a voice of low fury, and his surprise turned to steely resolve, he raised his own wand in a defensive stance, as if he expected her to attack him. " _You_ —"

"Sirius?" Regulus called, louder and more clearly than he had spoken since he'd arrived there. "Is that…you?"

Neither mother nor son moved. The tense silence of the room was punctuated by a weak cough.

Nobody said anything for a long moment—then Mrs. Black and Sirius both slowly lowered their wands and looked down at Regulus in unison—now making yet another feeble attempt to sit up.

Sirius crossed over to the sofa, brushing past his mother and pointedly ignoring his still-shocked father, who had gone even more white-faced when he'd appeared at the door a minute earlier. Outwardly, Sirius looked even worse for the wear than Regulus did. Orion glanced from the trail of his son's blood to his wife, engrossed in the unlikely scene between her two sons unfolding before her eyes.

"Yeah, it's me—he's coming." He lowered himself down to Regulus's level, the exact spot where his mother had been a minute before. His voice was muted. "Soon. How are you feeling?"

Regulus coughed—he had gotten most of whatever was in him out when Sirius had been away. His stomach was empty, so he could only dry heave now. His brother squeezed his shoulder.

"Better. I—" Regulus squinted up at him and took in the fresh injury. "What happened to your face?"

"Never mind that now," He hissed, in a low but perfectly audible voice. "Why the _hell_ did you call them?"

Mr. and Mrs. Black's eyes flashed with identical indignation. Lily found herself overcome with the urge to slink away into the kitchen (on the pretext of making tea? Could she get away with that?), but she forced herself to remain where she was.

"I didn't!" Regulus said, cutting off the sharp retorts on the tips of both his parents' tongues. "It was Kreacher."

"And why did you call _him_?" Sirius asked, exasperated, no longer trying to even half-heartedly keep the conversation from his parents. "You know he can't keep his trap shut for more than about five minutes—"

"He was with me—when I got it—the locket," he shot back, irritably. "I had to make sure he was safe—"

"You almost die and you're worried about the damn _elf_ ," said Sirius, rolling his eyes. "Reg, you can be such an idiot—"

"Do not speak to him that way," Mrs. Black said, stepping forward and brandishing her wand again—though this time it was far less threatening and more, for lack of a better word, scolding.

"I'll speak to him like I damn well _please_ —"

"Please don't fight," Regulus called over them, forcefully—his father had stepped forward, poised to get involved, but the pleading note from his beleaguered younger son stopped him. " _Please_. Don't. I can't…my head hurts."

Sirius looked between his mother and father and lowered his wand again.

"How could he even get in here?" Sirius asked, moodily, crossing his arms. "I've put up wards—protective spells."

"How many times...do I have to explain elf magic to you?" Regulus asked, sarcastically, letting his head fall back on the sofa. "He's the _family_ elf, his domain is _any_ Black Family house, or home, and this—"

"—Technically counts," Sirius groaned, through gritted teeth. "Damn it, I hate _family magic_ , it's so—"

"You can't mean—" Mr. Black interrupted, and Sirius turned to look at his father, who wore a look of dawning horror at the realization of where he was standing. "You can't possibly mean you _live here_?"

Sirius's face flushed with what Lily could have sworn was embarrassment.

"Yeah—I do," he said, defiantly, tossing his head—though his ears were still visibly burning.

When they had barged in, neither of the Black parents had appeared to show any interest or curiosity about the place their younger son had collapsed—now Mr. Black peered about the dingy flat, taking in everything—the aging orange shag carpeting, the novelty lava lamp he had bought at a thrift store as a joke several months earlier, and the _pièce de résistance_ —an unused, dusty television set he kept as a pretense for the muggle landlady.

"Charming," Orion remarked, dryly pronouncing final sentence.

That one word was pronounced so delicately, and yet, Sirius must've known exactly what his father was thinking, for his face flushed again and he shot back, hotly,

"Look, I've been busy, so it's not exactly tidy now—"

"It doesn't appear," Orion said, silkily, running a finger over the dusty sill. "—You've _ever_ tidied it. How long have you been living in this squalor?"

"It is not _squalor_!"

"It's a complete disgrace," his mother added, waspishly—Lily had a feeling that the distraction of piling onto Sirius and getting a rise out of him was the only thing keeping them from interrogating Regulus. Naturally he was taking the bait; his face was a magnificent shade of purple. "It's _wretched_. Is this how muggles live?"

"It's how _I_ live! And I didn't invite you in for tea, in case you've forgotten—in fact, I didn't invite you in at all—"

"Sirius!" Lily stepped between them and shot him a stern look. "Is it _really_ the time to be discussing this?"

Before he could answer, there was another sound from the kitchen—quieter than Sirius had been, but undoubtedly a person. Regulus groaned softly and raised his head again.

"It is I," a voice called. "Dumbledore."

Lily had never been so glad to see the Headmaster of Hogwarts in her life. He had an aura of power that demanded one sit up and take notice, and when he swept into the room in his midnight blue robes and took in the scene—Both Black parents, mid-argument with their eldest son, the younger feebly stirring on the sofa behind them—it didn't seem even _they_ would dare keep on their present course.

Professor Dumbledore looked neither surprised nor upset to find the entire Black Family there, and she could see behind his twinkling blue eyes the stirring of a plan.

"Professor!" she stepped forward and took his cloak. "Thank God you're here—"

"I apologize for taking as long as I did," Dumbledore said, mildly, murmuring thanks to her. "What happened isn't yet known—but I had to check."

"Professor Dumbledore…" Sirius protested, weakly—who after nodding politely at his parents had strode over to Regulus and bent down at his bedside. The younger brother blinked up at him blearily. "I didn't—"

"Give me a minute, Sirius."

For all their personal dislike of the headmaster, Mr. and Mrs. Black were no fools, and they did not protest when Dumbledore gently looked their son over—though they both wore expressions of deep distrust.

"How long has he been like this?" he asked, softly, looking up at the elder.

"Since he got here—he was worse before," Sirius sighed and ran a hand through his hair in frustration. "He kept throwing up, I thought he was—it seemed like he was poisoned—but then I saw the wounds on his arm—"

Dumbledore instantly turned around and carefully lifted Regulus's sleeve, where Lily had clumsily tried to bind a wound that was oozing green through the bandages.

"Merlin's beard," Orion swore. "What in Salazar's name did _that_?"

Dumbledore leaned very closely—he raised his wand and waved it over the wound, which flashed a more healthy shade of pink—and then turned and looked around at Mr. Black.

"That wound is from an Inferius," he said, calmly. "It appears your son has been attacked—by more than one. But it's something else, too."

" _Inferi_?" Orion repeated, disgusted.

Walburga and Orion gasped, horrified, and Sirius turned white again—Lily grabbed him by the arm to keep him from diving down on the floor next to Regulus as well.

"The locket…you have to…destroy it…" Regulus muttered, insistently. Dumbledore looked back at Sirius.

"He's been going on about a locket, too—it's the only thing he seems to care about, only he didn't come with one—"

"Kreacher…has it…"

"Kreacher?" Dumbledore repeated, mildly, and Sirius shook his head in warning, but it was too late, for Regulus had already raised his head and called, loudly and clearly—

"Kreacher—come here!"

Almost immediately there was a loud CRACK, and a creature—small, dark and with a pointed snout, a house-elf—appeared out of nowhere. Upon seeing Regulus weakly moving his head and hand, the elf promptly burst into noisy tears.

"Master Regulus—alive! Alive!" he cried, crawling up onto the couch and attaching himself to Regulus's legs like a limpet. "It's a miracle. Kreacher cannot believe Master Regulus—"

"Will you get _off_?" Sirius demanded, and the elf turned and gave him a haughty, fierce glare that looked, hysterically enough, like it was in imitation of Mrs. Black. "You're hurting him!"

Kreacher surprise at seeing who addressed him turned very quickly to unmistakable dislike.

"Kreacher does not take orders from nasty blood traitor runaways," the elf announced, clinging harder to Regulus.

Sirius turned to Mrs. Black, of all people, entreatingly.

"Will—you—" He flapped his arms in the direction of Kreacher, as if he was miming swatting away a large and rather onerous insect. "—Tell him to get off!"

Mr. Black stepped forward to take charge of the situation.

"Kreacher," he said, imperiously. "You will remove yourself from the young master at _once_ —"

But Kreacher burst into tears again, and could either not hear his master's orders or was pointedly ignoring them in favor of fawning over Regulus, who, wincing, patted him weakly on his head.

Sirius rolled his eyes.

"Oh, come on—you know he only listens to _her_." He looked again at his mother, staring fixedly at the elf and her younger son with distaste. "Make him get off Reg— _please_."

The politeness—the first he had shown her in a long time—seemed to snap Walburga out of it, and she straightened, and said, in a crisp voice that soared above the wailing:

"Kreacher—you will unhand young Master Regulus, and you will cease that infernal racket and sit calmly, lest you bring shame to your ancestors and this family. _At once_."

Instantly the elf stopped crying, sprung from the couch and bowed at his mistress's feet in supplication.

" _Thank you_ ," said Sirius, sarcastically. The elf shot him another nasty leer that he returned.

"Sirius…" Lily said, staring at the glowering creature clinging to Mrs. Black's skirts, transfixed. "Who…is that?"

"Kreacher. He's our—" Sirius stopped and corrected himself. "He's…the Black Family house-elf."

"You never told me your family had a—"

"—There's a lot of things I never told you," Sirius said, testily. "And I hope after this evening you can understand why!"

His mother shot him a hostile look, but another hacking fit from her younger son drew her attention away again.

"Kreacher…" Regulus exerted a considerable amount of his waning strength sitting up, Lily thought he looked like he was close to fainting again. She did not think it prudent to point out to Sirius that his fighting with their parents seemed to be sapping his brother of strength, but it was obvious to her (and she was sure, Dumbledore) that was the case. "Fetch…fetch the locket."

The elf stared up at him, eyes widening fearfully. He shook his head.

"Master…master said—"

"I know what I said," he grabbed his side and slid down the cushion. Dumbledore quickly leaned forward to compensate. "But…things have changed…"

"Elf—what have you done?" Orion asked, roughly twisting Kreacher around, but the elf slipped out of his grip. He could not seem to stop looking at Regulus, as if the very fact of his existence was, in this moment, a miracle.

Perhaps he knew something they didn't, Lily thought, looking down at Regulus. He looked so young, so fragile, deathly pale—nearly broken.

How close had he _been_ to death tonight?

"Master made Kreacher _swear_ never to tell—"

"Bring it now," Regulus ordered, sharply—sounding more like his mother than Lily would've thought possible. The elf gave him another fearful look, then with a loud CRACK disapparated.

Dumbledore readjusted Regulus back on the sofa seat carefully and, still crouched on the floor next to him, considered the younger Black brother. The rest of his immediate family—and Lily—hovered above him, but it was the serene Headmaster of Hogwarts that he had eyes for, now.

"What did you order Kreacher not to say?" Dumbledore asked, quietly.

"Where…where we were," he replied, shivering. "What happened."

"He was with you?"

The mere memory of wherever they had been sent a shudder through the boy, but he nodded.

"—Was it only your mother, father and brother you ordered him not to speak to of this?" Dumbledore asked, after a moment, very gently.

Lily didn't understand the question…nor did Sirius, if his expression was anything to go on, but Regulus seemed to get what he was driving at—he looked up, first at Mrs. Black, then his father—finally resting his tired eyes on his brother, who had started to shake.

"Yes."

Dumbledore nodded in understanding and stood up.

"I don't understand, Dumbledore—" Sirius said, voice unsteady. "What would Kreacher know he couldn't tell…us?"

"I believe we'll find out soon enough."

"And will he be—" Sirius swallowed, hard. "Is he…?"

"Regulus's injuries are very serious—if he had not made it here and been tended by you and Lily as quickly as he was…" He trailed off. "But in the short-term, he will be fine. He has been through some kind of ordeal tonight…"

Dumbledore stared at Sirius, apparently only now registering the gash on his face and the arm wound that was still dripping onto the shag carpet.

"…And apparently he is not the only one who has," Dumbledore said, frowning. "You didn't have these wounds an hour ago. What happened to you?"

Sirius stiffened—Lily noticed he was looking very hard at Dumbledore, a little _too_ hard—almost as if he was trying to block out the two pairs of sharp eyes boring into the side of his head.

"There was a—situation," he said, unhelpfully, picking up the towel he had dropped earlier and furtively wrapping it around his arm again.

"What sort of a situation?" Dumbledore asked, patiently, eyes twinkling knowingly behind the spectacles—though his voice was as bland as ever.

"It was…it's not—"

"When he came in he said he'd been jumped in Hogsmeade," Lily answered for him. Sirius turned on her, annoyed. "Oh, honestly, Sirius—they heard you say as much when you came in, and anyway, it's pretty obvious."

"Death Eaters did this?" Dumbledore asked, calmly.

"Must've been," Sirius shrugged, giving up the pretense of pretending—but he still wasn't looking at Mr. and Mrs. Black, whose disapproval had very quickly turned to alarm. "I wasn't being careful, I wanted to get back here so fast—"

"How many?"

"Oh—four or five, I think." He touched the side of his face gingerly. "Last one gave me this, but I got him back in the end. Stunner right to the head."

"You bested five Death Eaters?" Dumbledore asked, as a clarifying question—which Lily thought rather odd of him, until she noticed the sideways glance he gave the parents, and how they reacted to his next carefully phrased sentence. "Single-handedly, after a surprise attack in the middle of the night?"

"Well, when you put it like that it makes me sound like a ruddy hero," Sirius said, cracking his first smile of the night. "But I didn't walk away without a scratch."

"No wonder Lord Voldemort is so desperate to recruit you to his ranks, Sirius," Dumbledore remarked, not without humor. "When you make such light work of his best soldiers."

Mrs. Black made a movement and her son jerked his head, on reflex, in her direction—she had gripped her husband's forearm, almost as if to steady herself, and Orion pulled her a little closer to him in a gesture that—by the standards of a proud, traditional couple—could have almost been called tender.

Sirius bit his lip and turned back to Dumbledore, slowly.

"That's not true," he said, weakly.

"Yes…it is…."

They all looked down at Regulus—lying down by staring up at his brother, eyes fixed on Sirius's.

"If he wanted me so badly," Sirius said, contemptuously. "You'd think he'd bother to send someone to recruit me."

"Oh—that was your brother's job, I'd imagine," Dumbledore said, mildly, and Sirius and his parents both turned a deathly shade of pale. "Wasn't it, Regulus?"

Mr. and Mrs. Black, Sirius, Dumbledore and Lily all watched Regulus reluctantly nod.

"Reg…" Sirius lowered himself to the floor next to his little brother. "You little idiot, why didn't you say anything?"

"I…knew…" Regulus let out another rattling cough. "I know there wasn't any point…"

Dumbledore turned and, to Lily's surprise, addressed Orion.

"I'm sure it doesn't surprise you that your son understood his brother far better."

Mr. and Mrs. Black were at first shocked at being addressed so by Albus Dumbledore. Sirius, still kneeling at his Regulus's bedside, gritted his teeth. Lily saw the tension in his jaw as he fought the urge to turn back towards them. She watched husband and wife share a furtive look of mutual understanding—they were so good at masking their emotions she could only wonder at what they were thinking.

After a moment, Orion Black broke eye contact with his wife and nodded, stiffly, in Dumbledore's direction.

"Naturally," he said, a tinge of irony. "The boy isn't famous for his subtlety, after all."

Sirius let out a little "huff" noise and his younger brother laughed, wheezily—which turned into another rattling cough.

"Take it easy, moron," Sirius muttered, with obvious affection.

"Don't be rude to your brother," Mrs. Black scolded him, without much conviction.

Sirius rolled his eyes, but a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.

"It was a joke—"

There was yet another loud CRACK—Lily hoped Sirius had thought to place a silencing charm around the flat, it must've sounded as though a gun was going off—and Kreacher the house-elf appeared at Regulus's feet, clutching something heavy, gold and square protectively to his chest.

"Kreacher has brought the locket, Master—" he said, bowing his head down so low it touched the filthy sofa cushion.

Dumbledore leaned forward, and elf scrambled back, hugging the object tightly, as if it were a talisman that could ward off the kindly bearded wizard peering at him. Dumbledore turned to the young master, who was looking at him with a fresh determination.

"May I…?"

Regulus nodded.

"Give it to him, Kreacher." But the elf looked unconvinced, even at the direct order.

"Master said Kreacher must destroy the locket—"

"He will know how to!" Regulus snapped, losing his patience, and Kreacher flinched. "Now…hand…it over."

Fixing Dumbledore a look of intense distrust, the elf very slowly opened his arms and held out the locket. Lily noticed that when Dumbledore reached out to take it, he had to use a little bit of force to pull it from Kreacher's hands.

Indeed, it was a locket—large and old-fashioned, with a handsome metal chain—and yet as soon as Dumbledore pried it from the elf's grip and Lily got a good look at it, she felt an irrational urge to step away.

 _There's something not right_ , she thought.

If Dumbledore felt a similar desire, he did not show it. He silently stared at it for a minute, examined it from every angle—and Lily watched his eyes widen in a look of genuine surprise—something she had rarely, if ever, seen on his face—and then clear understanding. When he tore his eyes away from it at last she thought she saw a gleam of triumph.

"Regulus," he said, calmly, looking down at the still shivering boy on the sofa. "Am I right in assuming you know what this is?"

He bit his lip and, shaking, nodded.

"And you knew—" Dumbledore hesitated. "— _Before_ you went to retrieve it tonight?"

"Y-yes."

"Does anyone but you or Kreacher know where you were?" he asked, with a gentleness Lily had never seen from him.

"N-no-one…"

"Kreacher tried to do as Master Regulus asked!" the elf burst out, miserably. "Kreacher did everything to destroy the locket, he used all his magic, he failed Master Regulus—"

"You…did your best, Kreacher," Regulus reassured him, wearily. "And it…hardly matters now."

"What do you mean, Regulus?" Sirius asked, urgently—his face, if possible, going even whiter. "What doesn't it matter?"

"I only gave it to him…because…I thought…"

He glanced up at his parents, both watching him intently, and Regulus flushed red and fell silent again. Sirius looked around at Dumbledore—who, as usual, understood better than any of them.

"When you set out to get this—" Dumbledore said, quietly, holding up the locket. "—You did not believe you would survive the attempt."

Regulus blinked up at him, studiously avoided his parents and brother's gazes, and nodded once. His father swore audibly under his breath.

Sirius sprung to his feet and snatched the locket from Dumbledore's hand.

"What the _hell_ were you thinking, Reg?" He said, shaking it in front of his brother's face. "Whatever it is, it wasn't worth nearly dying to get it—!"

"If you knew…what it…was, you'd understand—"

"If it was so important, why didn't you come to _me_ for help, then?"

There was a long, painful silence following this question which answered it better than words could. Regulus blinked back something that looked suspiciously like tears. Sirius practically growled in frustration and turned away from his brother and back towards Dumbledore.

"What is it, really?" he asked Dumbledore, roughly. His former professor took the rather rude demand with his characteristic placidity, and fixed his ex-student with a serene smile.

"You might start with 'who did it belong to'," he said, calmly. "Do you know?"

Sirius scowled at him.

"Of course not—how the hell am I supposed to—"

"Give it to your father, Sirius—" A ghost of smile played about the wily wizard's mouth. "I'm sure he'll be able to tell you at once."

Perplexed, Sirius turned around and looked at his father—equally surprised, but Sirius did not hand it over, and so it fell to Dumbledore to gently remove it from the elder son's hand and give the locket to the father.

"What do you think, Orion—" Dumbledore asked, as the younger man studied the surface of the locket as a careful appraiser would. "Is it the genuine article?"

"Merlin…" Mr. Black's mouth fell open. "It _is_."

"Is _what_?" his elder son asked, impatiently.

" _Salazar Slytherin's._ "

As soon as the words left his mouth, Walburga's eyes narrowed with interest; She leaned over her husband's arm to examine it more closely.

"How can you tell?" Sirius asked, staring at the object his father was handling with considerable more care than he had shown.

Orion raised an eyebrow at him and snorted.

"Didn't we teach you anything? It has Slytherin's mark."

Sirius leaned over and peered at the serpentine carving of an 'S' in inlaid emeralds on the front of the locket.

"How does _that_ prove it was Slytherin's?" Sirius asked, incredulously. "Half the objects in your house have bloody serpents on them that look like that—"

"Don't be a fool, Sirius Orion—his _magical_ mark," his mother said, sharply. "His signature."

"…Oh."

His parents exchanged a knowing look of annoyance. Sirius looked over at Lily for support—she gave a helpless little shrug.

"My family has a bit of a thing about Slytherin lore, Lily, in case you couldn't guess," he remarked, with only the mildest annoyance in his voice—his parents collectively huffed behind him, and Dumbledore's eyes twinkled. "I stopped paying attention to the finer details around age twelve."

Lily bit back a smile of her own.

"I do remember you mentioning everyone in your family being in Slytherin when we met," she said, and the two exchanged a knowing look—thinking of an eleven-year old James miming a sword.

In this room, amidst all of the chaos and uncertainty—that day seemed several lifetimes ago.

"I didn't know…it was Slytherin's…" Regulus said, weakly, watching his father study the object with awe bordering on reverence, while his brother eyed it with distaste.

"I wouldn't expect you to," Dumbledore said, carefully taking the object back from Orion. "Admittedly, its provenance is the least interesting thing about it."

"The _least_ interesting thing—"

"Salazar Slytherin was only the locket's _origina_ l owner," Dumbledore cut Sirius off. "A family heirloom, passed down through generations—and until your brother stole it from him a few hours ago, held most recently by Slytherin's only living descendent."

"You can't mean—" Orion stepped forward, his wife still gripping his arm tightly. "That…the Dark Lord is—"

"You stole this from _Voldemort,_ Regulus?" Sirius asked, shocked.

His little brother shuddered at the memory and nodded, weakly, closing his eyes—as if that could block the recollection. Lily grabbed another blanket off the moldering arm chair and bent over him, covering Regulus with it.

"Presumably the place where this was concealed is also where your brother was attacked by the inferi," Dumbledore informed him, calmly. "Among other things."

"But how—?"

"How did you know where to find it, Regulus?" Dumbledore asked, turning back to the boy.

"I…didn't…Kreacher showed me."

"And how did Kreacher know?" he said, patiently, not in the least surprised or perturbed by the answer that had the rest of the boy's family staring at each other in astonishment.

"He…took Kreacher there. To the cave…"

The elf rocked back and forth on the floor, whimpering quietly—clearly taking his mistress's orders to be quiet to heart.

"I see." He glanced down at the elf, sharing in his master's horrific memories of that place—a cave, apparently. "Lord Voldemort asked for your assistance in concealing the locket, is that it?"

Regulus choked back another cough and nodded.

"He…wanted a house-elf…to test…"

"—The protective measures he put in place around it?"

"Y-yes…"

"Professor Dumbledore, I don't understand," Lily said, smoothing Regulus's blanket and standing up. Kreacher was still quietly crying on the floor, she looked at him with a mixture of pity and horror, then up at leader of the Order again. "Why would Voldemort want an _elf_ of all things?"

"Because he holds such creatures in contempt," Dumbledore answered, smoothly. "He would not have expected Kreacher to survive whatever he did to him, let alone return to his master to tell the tale."

"But he did," Mrs. Black said, her sharp eyes falling on Kreacher again for the first time since she had ordered him to get off the young master. "Kreacher—what did you see in this cave with the Dark Lord? What have you been concealing from your master and mistress?"

The elf leapt to his feet and jerked his head from his mistress to Regulus, who managed to pull himself onto his elbows and was watching the elf with real concern.

"Kreacher wants to—but Kreacher cannot—he is…" Kreacher flung himself into sofa leg and began ramming it with his head.

"Mother!" Regulus cried, over the din, as Lily stepped away in horror. "It's not his fault—I ordered him to say nothing, make him stop!"

"Kreacher must not—he CANNOT—!"

Seeing Regulus's expression, Mrs. Black's eyes flashed.

"Cease punishing yourself, elf!" she ordered, imperiously, and at once he stopped, and was left panting on the floor.

"T-thank you…" Regulus fell back on the pillows, weakly. "He's…he's been through enough."

" _He's_ been through enough?" Sirius snorted. "Have you looked at yourself recently?"

"Don't bully your brother—and anyway, he's not the one bleeding on the revolting carpet, is he?" his mother said, tartly, which caused her son to turn on her, incredulous.

"I'm perfectly fine, compared to him—" Sirius said, though Lily noticed he had started to sway just slightly in the past few minutes of excitement. " _He's_ the one whose been reckless for once, and you're _still_ —"

"There is no need for either Regulus or Kreacher to speak more of this tonight," Dumbledore interrupted, calmly, cutting off an argument Lily guessed could've gone on for hours if it was squashed now. "They have been through an ordeal the rest of us can only imagine."

"But what for—?" Orion asked, for once forgetting his customary disdain. "What kind of magic is concealed in that locket?"

"Please don't…" They all looked at Regulus again, who shook his head furiously. "I don't want them to…"

Dumbledore kneeled next to him, and spoke in a low, kind voice.

"You've been very brave, Regulus," he said, voice brimming with admiration. "But you must realize your parents and—" He glanced up at the grim-faced Sirius. "—Brother _already_ know too much."

"Even still—" He chewed his lip nervously and looked into the penetrating gaze of the man who had been his headmaster until only very recently. "If he finds out they know…"

Dumbledore's blue eyes remained fixed on Regulus's—dark and clouded with pain—for a long moment. He closed them and sighed.

"Very well." Dumbledore turned towards Mr. and Mrs. Black—eying him with suspicion after the cryptic exchange. "Your son has shown incredible courage this night—well beyond his years. You ought to be very proud of him. Though he does not wish for you to know the whole—it is sufficient to say Regulus has done more single-handedly to defeat Lord Voldemort than any other living person."

Orion and his wife did not quite know how to take such bald praise from a man they personally disliked as much as Dumbledore. He settled for a stiff nod, and Mrs. Black merely stared up at him, eyes glittering in the half-light of her older son's dingy flat.

"Orion," said Mrs. Black, tilting her face towards her husband, almost as if by sheer force of will she could make them the only two other people in the room. "We'll have to take him back to Grimmauld Place."

"I'm afraid that's not possible," Dumbledore informed her, calmly. Mr. Black visibly bristled.

"Who are _you_ to tell us what we can't do with our own son?" he said, haughtily. Out of his eye-line, Sirius rubbed his temples wearily. Dumbledore—the same height as Orion Black, and not a man easily intimidated—smiled at the rather forbidding glower the Black Patriarch was giving him.

"I'm only interested in his safety," he said, serenely.

"And I suppose you think I'm not?"

"Merlin, Father, that's not what he's saying!" Sirius snapped, impatiently. "Don't you understand? Whatever it is Reg has done, there's no coming back from it. He already almost died tonight, were you hoping to only postpone it to breakfast time?"

Orion fixed his elder son with a look of supreme irritation.

"What an _idiotic_ question," he said, tersely.

"We can't be sure Voldemort even knows the locket is missing," Dumbledore added, more calmly. "I doubt that he does—but there is a risk, if Regulus is summoned in this state, he may suspect what your son has done."

What would happen then did not need to be said, and yet they all exchanged a tense, knowing look.

"But Grimmauld Place—"

"Is the first place they'll look," Sirius interjected, grimly. "No one would ever think he'd be here," he said to his father—in a serious, calm voice, trying to reason with him. "It's the…perfect hiding spot."

"At least for the night," Dumbledore added, quick to reassure them that their time in this wholly unsuitable place would, happily, be brief. Mr. Black considered his elder son for a long moment.

"There's—wisdom in that, I suppose," Mr. Black conceded, stiffly.

"You'll naturally wish to stay with him?"

They looked at him with identical expressions—as if there was any other option. Sirius's mouth thinned but he said nothing.

"Good. I think it better you all remain in one place until we know more."

"What about Regulus…you know…" Sirius shifted nervously from side-to-side. "Is he still…?"

Dumbledore bent over him again, this time pulling out two bottles from the inner pockets of is robe.

"This—" He held up the smaller one. "Will help with the poison. The other is a sleeping draught to help him rest."

"And otherwise he'll be…?"

"Fine and safe for the time being," Dumbledore turned towards Sirius, his eyes twinkling again. "For the present, Sirius—I am actually more concerned about _you_."

"Me?" Sirius repeated, confused.

All eyes turned to Sirius—Dumbledore, who was the only person in the room who had taken the bizarre events of the night in his stride, Regulus, still barely able to sit up on the couch, Kreacher, sitting at his mistress's feet and fixing the runaway heir with a look of decided disapproval, Mr. and Mrs. Black, staring at their eldest son with identical sharp scrutiny—and finally, Lily.

"Sirius!" she cried. "Your arm."

"What about—?"

The towel he had haphazardly wrapped around his injured arm was now completely soaked with blood—which showed no sign of abating. It fell off again, and the wound—which had turned a nasty shade of toxic green—oozed onto the carpet.

"Shit," he swore under his breath. "I guess it's—a bit worse than I thought."

"A bit?" Lily repeated, a note of hysteria in her voice. "Sirius, you look like you're about to faint!"

"I am not going to—"

"Professor Dumbledore—" Lily turned to her former headmaster, entreatingly. "He really ought to go to St. Mungo's."

"You do need to have this looked at," Dumbledore said, gravely, examining the wound on his arm and face with a trained eye. "I can't be sure about the exact cause of these injuries, but…I wonder…"

He turned, abruptly, to Sirius's mother, whose eyes were darting between the ugly gash on his face to the arm wound with the shrewd understanding of an appraiser.

"Mrs. Black—I believe you have some expertise in curses and their effects." She blinked up at him haughtily, as if the mere fact of his daring to address her (however politely) was insolence in and of itself. "Perhaps _you_ could examine Sirius."

At this suggestion, her elder son looked like he'd swallowed poison. Mrs. Black, however, only stared at Sirius for a long moment—bedraggled and exhausted, in his torn t-shirt still dripping blood on the carpet—and nodded curtly.

"I can."

Her slightly aristocratic air managed to infuse those two words with something equal maternal and menacing. Sirius gulped.

Mrs. Black took a step towards him, and he immediately backed up straight into Lily.

"What are you doing—?" She hissed in his ear, elbowing Sirius in the ribs.

"Saving myself, what do you think?" he muttered back, and his injured arm brushed up against Lily's. He gasped in pain. " _Shit_."

"Come here," his mother ordered, taking out her wand. Her son eyed it warily and made no move, half-hiding behind Lily, still biting back a cry at the pain in his arm. "I said, _come here_."

"What are you going to do?" he asked, suspiciously.

"What do you _imagine_ I'm going to do?" she asked, dryly, arching one eyebrow.

"Do you want an honest answer to that question, or—"

"Stop arguing with your mother," Mr. Black interrupted, supremely irritated. "And do as she says, for once. No one here finds your stubbornness amusing in the least."

Sirius shot him a childish scowl—Lily thought he seemed on the verge of sticking out his tongue. Dumbledore looked as though he was trying rather hard not to laugh.

Mrs. Black tapped her hand against the side of her arm and scowled. Clearly whatever patience she might've had was fast dwindling.

"Sirius Orion, if I have to ask you again—"

"Fine, fine." He raised up his hands in a gesture of surrender. "I'm coming, _Merlin_."

He took a few cautious steps towards his mother, still eying her and her wand with deep suspicion. She watched his approach with something like disgruntled annoyance. When he was still a few feet shy Mrs. Black hand's shot out and grabbed him by his good arm and dragged him towards her.

"Ow," he exclaimed, trying to twist out of her grip, which only tightened. "Let go."

She ignored him, instead peering down at the open wound on his arm, which now was bubbling ominously. Her husband stepped behind her and examined the wound over her shoulder as well. Sirius stared helplessly at Lily, who offered him a comforting and sympathetic smile.

"What do you think, Walburga?" Orion said to her, quietly. "Looks like an Invectus curse to me."

"It is," she agreed, in a definitive sort of voice. Regulus had propped himself up on the pillows again, with great effort, and was trying to sneak a look as well.

"Ah," Dumbledore nodded, knowingly. "The Invectus curse, of course. Happily, that wound _looks_ worse than it is. What about the one on his face?"

She let go of her son's right arm and abruptly grabbed his chin, yanking Sirius's face towards her so she could examine the ugly cut on his left cheek. There was a familiar intimacy to the gesture—Sirius's face had reflexively turned with her, but after a second he pushed against her, trying to slip out of her grip—with little success.

"Keep still," she ordered, in a quiet but deadly voice. He stopped moving and she put her face so close to his that he had no choice but to look at his mother. Lily did not think she had ever seen him more uncomfortable. The family resemblance between them was especially pronounced with their faces so close together—though he looked most like his father, she, too, had the same distinctive gray eyes, which were now intensely examining the cut on his cheek.

She was beautiful, Lily thought, in a severe, intimidating sort of way. She could not imagine growing up with Mrs. Black as your mother, and after seeing them together, even briefly, Lily felt like _she_ explained more about Sirius than he would probably care to admit.

After a long moment of silent scrutiny, Mrs. Black's eyes widened in recognition. She released his chin—Sirius reached up and rubbed the spot, ruefully, and she stepped back next to her husband and gave him a significant look.

"What is it, Mother?" Regulus said, unable to keep the concern out of his voice as he struggled to sit up all the way. At his feet the House Elf made a valiant effort to force him back down, and he gently swatted at Kreacher. "What's wrong with him?"

"It's the Cycticero curse," she said, in a low, tense voice—outwardly very calm, but her eyes flashed with something akin to…concern.

Sirius turned a sickly shade of green and looked between his parents—his father's expression had blackened, he kept fiddling with his watch, and his mother was gripping her wand tightly again, any hint at what she was thinking veiled behind her natural hauteur. Lily turned to Dumbledore, who was now examining Sirius with fresh worry.

"The Cycticero curse?" Lily asked him, fidgeting nervously. "I've never heard of it—what does it do?"

"A particularly nasty spell—and slow acting," he answered her, gravely. "It has the appearance of a common garden variety magical burn, but it gradually acts on the mind. That wound is far more of a cause for concern than the one on his arm."

"What'll happen to me?" Sirius asked, putting up a valiant effort at sounding casual and failing miserably.

"Brain inflammation, fever and hallucinations," his mother answered, smoothly. Regulus bolted upright.

"Hallucinations?" he repeated, before letting out another string of coughs. "How long before—"

"I think that bit might've started already," Sirius said, actually laughing. The frown lines between his father's eyes grew even more pronounced.

"What do you…mean?"

"Well, that's the only thing that could explain how I'm seeing _them_ in my flat right now, you see—"

"It is not a laughing matter," his mother snapped, annoyed, and he stopped laughing—though a hint of a smile still tugged at his lips, much to her obvious annoyance.

"Your mother is right—you'll need to have that treated tonight," Dumbledore agreed, seriously. "Mrs. Black, I assume you have the materials you need to do so?"

"Naturally—back at the house," she said, smoothly, and the smile fell off her son's face instantly. "I'll send the elf for it."

"Now wait—wait just a minute," Sirius protested, loudly. Everyone in the room turned around and looked at him—and though he usually enjoyed attention, five sets of human eyes (and one disgruntled house-elf's), the scrutiny of an entire room of people—half of whom had had authority over him over the course of his life—gave him pause.

"Is there a problem?" Dumbledore asked, calmly.

"Well, um…" His mother glowered at him over Dumbledore's shoulder, as if daring him to answer 'yes.' "Not exactly, I just…it doesn't seem…it's nothing…"

"You having hallucinations and brain fever is nothing?" Lily asked, crossing her arms in front of her and tilting her head thoughtfully. Sirius shot her a dirty look.

"Don't be so stubborn, Sirius," Regulus said, nestling back into the sofa cushion. "Mother will take good care of you."

Sirius opened his mouth to argue, then looked down at his brother—lying prone on his back, still shivering under the blankets, staring at him with a look that could almost be described as pleading. The two brothers locked eyes, had a silent conversation (Regulus mouthed something at him that looked suspiciously like 'be nice')—and Sirius looked up again at his mother, whose glittering eyes were still fixed on his injured cheek.

"Fine," he sighed. Dumbledore clapped his hands together.

"Excellent," he said, clearly delighted—as though the energy in the room was not still thick with tension. "Well, Sirius—I leave you in your mother's very capable hands. There's still much to do—I must go." He addressed the parents. "I'll return in a few hours with more information, and we can decide what to do about a cover story for Regulus—to account for his absence."

Orion nodded, but Walburga had already turned to Kreacher to give him her marching orders.

"Kreacher—go back to the house and fetch everything in the top drawer of the ivory cabinet in sitting room. And essence of dittany—all my potions ingredients. Quickly."

Kreacher shot young Master Sirius a malevolent look, as if to indicate that as far as _he_ was concerned, his mistress's older son was undeserving of such attention. Sirius pulled a face at him, but the elf turned his head back towards Mrs. Black, bowed and vanished with another loud CRACK.

Dumbledore had knelt on the floor next to Regulus again.

"You'll want to drink these," he said, quietly, pointing towards the two bottles of potion he had placed there a few minutes earlier. "And get some rest."

"But…the locket—"

"—Will be destroyed—I promise you. Right now _you_ are more pressing," he told him, gently.

Regulus was fading, but his eyes flitted up to his parents, who were speaking to each other in hushed voices, and to Sirius—whispering to Lily, leaning on her, barely able to stand.

Dumbledore saw where he was looking and smiled.

"Don't worry," he said, patting Regulus on the arm. "They'll be safe here. I give you my word."

Regulus nodded, stiffly—in a manner near-identical to his father, but the gesture somehow came across as rather comical from a scrawny 18-year-old, and he took the two bottles off the sideboard obediently. The headmaster stood up, the abundant energy that sprang from who knew where obvious.

"Lily, I was wondering if I—might have a word."

His eyes twinkled in Sirius's direction (who was leaning against the couch, clearly unenthused at the prospect of being left alone with his immediate family), and he turned and walked into the kitchen, the young Mrs. Potter close at his heels. As soon at they entered the dimly lit kitchenette, Dumbledore shut the door behind them.

"Professor Dumbledore—?"

He held up a hand to silence her.

"I'm going to meet James. I sent him out on mission tonight. I've heard word from him, he's safe—" Lily let out a sigh of relief. "Tired, I think—but in high spirits. He doesn't yet know what happened tonight, but of course you can tell him the whole."

Lily nodded slowly, then looked back around at the shut door.

"Professor Dumbledore…" she said, turning back around. "What _did_ happen tonight?"

"A great deal—not all of which I'm yet at liberty to divulge," he said, enigmatically.

"But I don't understand, what is that locket—"

"Was this your first time meeting Sirius's parents, Lily?" Dumbledore interrupted her, abruptly. She blinked—taken aback by the question, she momentarily forgot all about Slytherin's locket.

"It…was."

"What did you think of them?"

She considered the question for a long moment.

"They seem very proud," she said, finally, twisting a lock of her dark red hair around her finger.

"A diplomatic answer," Dumbledore said, amused. "They are—immensely. In fact it's by all accounts the defining characteristic of the clan." He paused for a moment. "Were you surprised by them, knowing what you do of your friend?"

"No," she replied, immediately—an answer Lily only realized after she'd blurted it out. She hadn't been surprised in the slightest—though she had never stopped to really consider Sirius's parents, so she hadn't thought she had any expectations that could be met. "He never talks about them."

"The Blacks are among the oldest and wealthiest wizard families in Britain. Our history is dotted with their exploits—though, as a muggle-born witch, I would have been surprised if you were familiar. They have a reputation for magical talent, good-looks and a…" Dumbledore considered his next words carefully. "…penchant for less than savory magic."

"You mean they're dark wizards?"

"Some have been, undoubtedly." Dumbledore sighed. "Sirius is the eldest Black son of four generations of the family—his father, Orion, who you've just met, is the heir apparent and acting head. Orion and his wife, Walburga, are second cousins, making both their sons _double_ Blacks—from the family's perspective the only thing more desirable than being a Black of the regular stripe.

"Sirius was, I am told, a long anticipated child. As heir to his father, he was raised with the expectation that after seven years in Slytherin, he would grow up and marry a witch of equally impeccable pure-blood ancestry, continuing the grand dynasty—you see that the Blacks name all their children after constellations, that gives you an idea of how they see themselves. Can you imagine where things went awry?"

She had not been expecting this speech—she could only marvel that Dumbledore knew all this, never mind that Sirius hadn't told her any of it—nor did she understand his smile, now. She shook her head and Dumbledore smiled, as if at a private joke.

"Sirius met your future husband on the Hogwarts Express." Lily's almond-shaped eyes widened, and she smiled as well. "James convinced him at once that they would have a much more, er, amusing time if they were in the same house—Gryffindor was his preference—and Sirius agreed, making him the first Black in _many_ generations to be sorted thusly." Dumbledore's eyes twinkled. "I don't think Horace Slughorn has quite recovered from the loss, though I daresay James was right."

"I think he would agree," Lily said, grinning. "Why are you telling me all this, professor?"

"It is a—delicate matter." Dumbledore frowned, thoughtfully. "Regulus Black's defection is surprising, but he sought out the help of his brother in good faith, clearly. He wants the protection of his family—but his parents are less easy to predict. The extended clan is dotted with Death Eaters and collaborators—and I'm sure Sirius will not hesitate to tell you that up until now his parents have been sympathetic to Voldemort's cause, if not outright supportive."

Lily shivered.

"'Up until now'?"

Dumbledore smiled with a kind of grim triumph.

"I think the attempted murder of not one, but two Black sons in the course of a single evening may have cooled them on the prospect." He stroked his beard. "I doubt it occurred to them that members of their family—even blood traitors like Sirius—could be casualties of this war. This could be a turning point for them—and an opportunity."

"You think Mr. and Mrs. Black will join our side?" Lily asked, skeptically. He shook his head.

"I think it more likely—I convince them it's in their best interest not to alert Lord Voldemort's followers of what they know of either of their sons' actions." He looked thoughtful. "It will be hard. As I'm sure you can tell, they don't trust me—in fact, they harbor a particular personal dislike."

"Why?"

"They blame my influence for Sirius running away from home," he said, blandly. "In part, at least—James, I'm afraid, bears the brunt of their resentment, which is why I would prefer he keep away for the present—and why I need your help."

"I'll do whatever you ask," she said, sitting up straighter. Dumbledore smiled and nodded, approvingly. "We both will."

"This will be difficult for Sirius. I will need his help in gaining their cooperation, but it may require—a kind of appeasement on his part which I think will be very difficult for him. The feelings between them, as I'm sure you can tell, are…complicated. He is, as a consequence, not always…objective."

"I was getting a bit of a sense of that," she admitted, twisting her wedding ring around her finger. "He told me he was disowned by his parents, but it doesn't seem like—"

"—They are _entirely_ indifferent to him?" Dumbledore finished for her, delicately. Lily nodded, hesitantly. "You are an astute observer of human behavior, as always. Even with his dangerously modern ideas about blood purity, Sirius remains clever, charming, good-looking, magically powerful—and their son." He looked amused. "Such things are hard to ignore when right in front of one—and Regulus nearly dying puts things in perspective. I would be surprised if tonight's events did not…soften their stance on their eldest's behavior somewhat."

"It makes sense—though I doubt Sirius will see it that way," she agreed. "What do you need from James and I?"

"I'll need your help convincing him to—restrain himself."

"You mean be nice and polite and not argue with them every five minutes?" Dumbledore nodded and she groaned. "Oh, that'll be fun."

"A lack of hostility might be a more realistic prospect to start." He looked down his spectacles at her. "I have faith in the two of you to impart to Sirius the wisdom of it."

"That'll take a minor miracle."

"Sometimes the most difficult missions are the most unexpected," Dumbledore said, sagely.

The door burst open and Sirius stumbled in, shutting it hastily behind him.

"You're still here—thank Merlin!"

"He's about to go see James," Lily informed him, and Sirius went white.

"What's wrong with—what's happened to him?"

"He's fine—a mission for the Order that was a complete success," Dumbledore informed him "I was about to ask Lily if she had a message to pass on, actually."

"Only—that I love him and will see him soon." She turned to her friend, clearly woozy from his injuries. "Do you have anything to tell him?"

Sirius snorted.

"Nothing different from that—and he'd only mock me for going soft if I said it."

"So the message is from both of us, professor," Lily laughed.

"Dumbledore—" Sirius stepped away from Lily toward the kitchen counter, where Dumbledore was casually examining the electric stove with mild curiosity. "I…"

The Headmaster fixed his young charge with one of his trademark looks.

"…Are you sure I can't come with you?" he finished weakly. Dumbledore chuckled.

"You're not in a state to go anywhere. Get some rest, Sirius," he ordered, gently. "You'll need your strength."

"If she poisons me," Sirius said, fixing his and Lily's leader with a dark look. "I'm holding you personally responsible, you know that, right?"

"I think that very unlikely—but I accept responsibility happily." He beamed at them both. "I will send word if anything changes."

Then he held up his wand—performed his usual brand of mysterious non-verbal magic—and vanished.

He and Lily stared at the empty spot where Dumbledore had been for a moment.

"I hate it when he does that."

Sirius turned and walked over to the kitchen table, sitting down across from her.

"Does what?"

"Leaves after only giving us half the information." He leaned back in his chair and sighed.

"How are you feeling?" she leaned forward in her own seat, concerned.

"Fine! I'm just tired. My head feels…perfectly fine," he finished, without much conviction. Lily decided it was best not to argue with him.

"Still—it's better not to take the risk, isn't it?" she said, reasonably.

"What were you and Dumbledore getting all cosy about?"

"He was—telling me a bit. About your family." Sirius crossed his arms and shot her a knowing look. "She is _not_ going to poison you."

"That's all you know."

" _Sirius Orion Black_!" a an imperious voice called through the door of the kitchen. "Where have you wandered off to?"

He hunched his shoulders and didn't get up from the table, instead scowling at Lily across the grubby table. There was an abandoned takeout food box sitting in front of him, which he poked at, moodily.

"You realize it's a not a big flat, right?" Lily asked, suppressing a laugh.

"I don't have to make things easy for her."

"Mrs. Black—we're in here!" Lily called out; Sirius fixed her with an accusatory look and hunched down even further. A second later the formidable woman herself appeared in the kitchen door, an old-fashioned case in her hands—it looked a bit like a sewing kit, though Lily guessed it was full of potion ingredients—and the house-elf at her heels, holding a number of large bottles and vials of things that looked very ominous.

"So this is where you've been hiding," she said, sweeping the room with a single contemptuous look.

"I have not been _hiding_ ," he said, sitting up straight, trying to muster some dignity.

"Get up," she ordered, snappily, walking briskly over to him. "I have to see to those wounds."

He looked up at her and gave her a defiant glare—Lily had the impression that he would refuse any direct order on principle. Mrs. Black merely narrowed her eyes, lifted her wand and vanished the chair out from under him. He let out a yelp of shock, scrambled to grip the edge of the table and missed, falling hard on his bum on the dirty linoleum floor.

"Ow!" he cried, rubbing his backside ruefully and looking up at. "What was that for?"

"You need to take the potion now and your willfulness is tiresome," she informed him, eyes flashing dangerously. "Next time it will be the floor."

Slowly he got up from the floor—still glaring heartily at her—and dusted himself off, pointedly not looking at Lily.

"Now—" She looked around the room again, sniffing distastefully at the electric stove that had fascinated Dumbledore so. "I assume there is a lavatory in this hovel—or do you relieve yourself off the side of the building like a savage?"

"Yes, there's a loo," he said, dully, leading her out of the kitchen. Lily knew it wasn't funny, not really—but she wished, in that moment, that Remus was there to share with her the expression of pure and abject mortification on Sirius's face.

* * *

As they walked into the tiny lavatory, Sirius was keenly aware of the mold on the shower curtain and the cracked mirror above the sink. Everything was long overdue to be cleaned—of course he was rarely here, with so many late night missions for the Order, but the last thing on earth he wanted to do was give an excuse to the woman behind him. That would be to admit that her opinion mattered (which it didn't, it was none of her business if he slept under a cardboard box in Covent Garden as far as he was concerned).

His mother's sharp eyes took in everything with a single withering glance, then rested on the toilet, which Sirius had hastily put down the seat of in a poor attempt to improve the dismal appearance of the place.

"Sit," she ordered, and summoned a small stool out of thin air for herself.

Sirius slowly lowered himself onto the toilet and watched his mother bustle about the tiny room, making surprisingly economic use of the space to set up her potions and vials of mysterious and vaguely sinister liquids. Occasionally she muttered things to the elf, who handed her ingredients and bottles, shooting him malevolent looks when his mistress's back was turned.

"Now," she said, turning to him, at last. "Hold out your arm."

"Does _he_ have to be here?" Sirius asked, with just a trace of petulance. She rolled her eyes.

"Kreacher—wait outside," Mrs. Black said, patting him absently on the head in a rare display of affection. "I'll call for you if I need you."

"Yes, Mistress. Kreacher will be waiting," he paused to get in a good glare. " _Right_ outside if he is needed."

The elf gave one of his patented low bows and shuffled out of the room. He left the door slightly ajar and peered through the crack at them. Sirius raised his wand irritably and slammed it in the elf's face.

"Do you feel better, now?" his mother asked, dryly. "Arm."

Looking very grumpy, Sirius held it out to her. Mrs. Black took his arm gently but firmly in her left hand—he tensed and then, after a moment, relaxed again.

"Yes, immensely—ow!" Without warning she dumped a large dollop of green salve on his wound. "That hurts like—!"

"—Why do you _care_ if he's here?" she said, yanking his arm straighter so she could more easily spread the goo around with her wand. Sirius let out a little 'tch' sound in the back of his throat. "He's only a servant."

"Well, you try having him glower at you every five seconds," he shot back, trying without success to tug his arm out of her vice-like grip. "He's always hated me, and I can't say our time apart seems to have improved him much."

"Why should it matter what he thinks?" she said, with a touch of impatience. "Why should you care? He's beneath your notice."

"That's easy for you to say," he snorted, trying to roll up his torn t-shirt sleeve, in a fruitless attempt to save it from being stained by whatever she'd put on his arm. "He worships the ground you walk on."

"You and your brother are completely hopeless," she informed him, face bent very low over his wound—it was bubbling oddly, emitting strange popping noises, which if her expression was anything to go by was apparently normal. " _He_ treats the elf like a pet, and you _argue_ with it at every turn as if it were an equal."

"Well, we can't all be as ace at managing the help as you, Mother," he replied, sourly, and then immediately flushed scarlet.

The word had slipped out almost by accident—but it was the first time he'd called her 'mother' in nearly three years, and her eyes glittered in recognition.

"Your trouble," she told him, quietly, squeezing his arm a fraction tighter. "Is that you let him see it bothers you. You can't show weakness to a servant, they'll—"

"—I thought you couldn't show weakness to _anyone_?"

Briefly—very briefly—her mask slipped, and Walburga Black was surprised by the question, betraying a flicker of something that was not contempt or irritation. Just as quickly she recovered herself and shrugged, airily.

"It's better, on the whole, not to," she said, cooly, and steered his arm to the sink, where she laid it on the ceramic edge of the counter so that the wound didn't touch anything. "Let it rest there for a moment while I mix up the next part."

She turned away from him, and they sat in heavy silence while she mixed up another salve for the wound. Sirius was uncomfortably reminded of very early childhood—his mother was a prodigious potioneer, and he had been fascinated by the puffs of colorful smoke rising in the air, the hisses and pops that came from the cauldron, and so when he was very well-behaved (which was seldom) he had been allowed to watch her work—quietly, of course, so she didn't lose her concentration.

If he managed to get through the entire exercise without irritating Mother, he'd been allowed to peer into the cauldron and see the finished product. She promised she would tutor him in it after he went to school.

But of course, then he did go to school—and after the high drama of his sorting, Sirius had never asked her about it again.

Anyway, he'd never had the patience for potions.

She was focusing singularly on her work now, so for the first time in over three years he could study her without her noticing. His mother was still very beautiful, in the style of all women in their family—arched brows, dark hair, straight nose and full lips—but the years since his graceless exit had aged her. He could see gray at her temples where there had never been, crows' feet around her eyes. Most of all she looked tired and careworn. His entire life she had been to him more a force of nature than a woman, and to see these little signs that she, too, was human, unsettled Sirius.

It made something he did not want to reckon with stir in a spot right above his left rib cage.

Sensing she was being watched, his mother looked up, and hers and Sirius's eyes locked. He started at being caught staring, and he flushed and hurriedly looked way, glaring at a large water stain on the wall instead.

There was another long minute of silence while she waited for the salve to set in her cauldron; Sirius didn't dare risk looking at her again. He preferred the two of them not speaking, however awkward it was, and hoped that for the rest of these interminable minutes in close proximity she would stick to barking instructions at him.

"How did your brother know about this place?" she asked quietly, breaking the silence as she lifted his arm off the edge of the sink again. Sirius was too taken aback at the question to protest being manhandled again; this time he didn't even squirm.

"You mean—how did he know where I live?" She nodded, curtly—pouring something red and acrid-smelling over his arm. He shrugged. "No idea. I suppose some of his Death Eater pals told him—maybe they've been tailing me."

She caught his eye again and gave him a penetrating, hawkish look that instantly got his back up.

"It's the truth!" Sirius insisted—he recognized accusation from her. "It's not as if Regulus and I have been…meeting behind your back in secret, or something. I'm no corrupting influence, if that's what you're worried about."

"When was the last time you spoke to him?"

"Christmas last year!" he snapped, so annoyed he forgot to lie. "I ran into him at the Leaky Cauldron—I think he was drunk, he yelled a lot of rubbish at me about what a terrible son I was and how I'd ruined yours and Dad's lives, then stormed out again. That was the last time I spoke to him, and believe me, he did not seem wildly inspired by my example at the time."

She pulled his arm taut with unnecessary force and waved her wand. His skin started to knit itself together.

"Regulus Arcturus has always looked to you as an example," Mrs. Black said, waspishly, and her son burst out laughing.

"Please—it's you and dad he practically worships!" he said, unable to keep a sneer from his voice. "He _never_ listens to me."

"Your brother nearly died tonight after an act of supreme and reckless foolishness," his mother said, frown lines growing especially pronounced. "And ended up on your doorstep. You expect me to believe you had _nothing_ to do with it?"

"Has it occurred to you that maybe Regulus wised up on his own?" Sirius asked, eyes rolling toward the ceiling. "That he's actually capable of having an original thought?"

She sniffed, loudly; the look of extreme skepticism on Mrs. Black's face suggested that she did not, in fact, think that was very likely. Sirius shook his head in disbelief and looked up at the ceiling.

"I can't believe you," he snorted. "You're actually trying to blame _me_ for this. If it's anyone's fault, it's yours and your husband's."

"What in Salazar's name—" she spat, yanking him by the chin and forcing him to look at her. "—Do you mean by _that_?"

Sirius glared at her, defiantly.

"Well, why do you think he joined up with them in the first place?" he said, recklessly—she released his chin in surprise and he pressed on. "He'd do anything for your approval, even join the bloody Death Eaters. I bet he thought he was making you _proud_ , the idiot."

She stared at him, aghast at being spoken to so—clearly she had forgotten in their three years apart—and then her eyes narrowed into catlike slits.

"You're in no position to be criticizing _anyone_ in this family," she hissed, with controlled fury—she had a volcanic temper, and this was the dangerous part, when it was bubbling just below the surface. He glowered, steeling himself for battle. "After what you did, after you abandoned your responsibilities, after you—"

"I know, I _know_ —!" he cut her off, coldly. "I'm an awful son and a total disgrace—you don't need to repeat yourself, _believe me_ , I remember everything you said to me last time with amazing clarity, I could probably recite it on command from memory if I had to. Don't bother pretending it matters on _my_ account, I'm very aware that you wish you'd never given birth to me."

He yanked his arm out of her grasp and scooted the three inches away from her the space afforded.

To Sirius's immense surprise, his mother did not shout anything back to him—his histrionic outburst froze her in place, and she simply stared at him—first in shock, and then…curiously… something else. Her gray eyes widened, and almost at once Mrs. Black's anger evaporated, leaving in its wake an odd, closed look of understanding.

"You shouldn't overexcite yourself," she said, calmly, pulling his arm back towards her gently.

He gaped at her, more shocked than he would have been if she had cursed him.

"You've been through a great deal tonight," Walburga continued, lightly, looking over his arm. "I should not have provoked you. I'm—sorry."

The words were said very quickly, very awkwardly—but that did not make their impact any less momentous. Sirius had never heard her apologize to anyone, let alone to _him_. He had also never had an argument with his mother that had not ended in a door getting slammed or her screeching at him, and so the cool and in-control woman now looking him over could just as well have been a stranger.

"W-what did you just say?" he sputtered. His mouth felt dry and he was light-headed, she was completely placid and calm and—not herself in the slightest. Perhaps the hallucinations had started.

"You heard me perfectly well," Mrs. Black said, softly, touching the corner of his arm with her finger.

It tingled at the touch of her cold finger—but it no longer hurt.

"I thought—" He forced himself to look away from her and towards his arm, desperately groping for some change of subject. "I thought that the curse wound on my _face_ was the one that's going to kill me."

"I'll see to it in a moment," she said, calmly. "If I didn't treat _this_ straight away you would be left with a scar."

"Who _cares_ if I have a scar?" Sirius blurted out. His mother looked up from where she was inspecting the half-healed section of skin with a 'are-you-stupid?' look.

"I do," she snapped, raising one perfectly arched eyebrow. "Do you want an ugly mark all down your arm? What would people think?"

"That I'm a very dangerous, cool bloke," Sirius said, grinning, in an impertinent tone clearly designed to annoy her. "Some girls think they're sexy, I've been told."

"Do not use that vulgar word," she ordered, and he scrunched his nose in her direction petulantly.

"Is that the sort of thing…" She released his arm (apparently it passed muster upon inspection, he flexed it a few times experimentally and was amazed at the improvement—it practically felt normal!) and turned towards her box of potions ingredients to start preparing her next antidote "… that girl likes?"

He frowned, puzzled.

"What girl?"

"The girl out in the sitting room," his mother snapped, as if he was deliberately acting obtuse. "The red-headed one."

"Lily, you mean?" he asked, at a complete loss—until he saw the shift in Mrs. Black's expression. "What does she have to…Oh— _oh_. I see what you're driving at."

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean," his mother said, placidly turning back to her cauldron. Sirius let out a slightly hysterical laugh.

"She's not my—you didn't think…" She _had_ thought. "She's wearing a _wedding ring_!"

"Is she?" Mrs. Black asked, casually, holding a string of unicorn hair up to the dim light. "I didn't notice."

"Like hell you didn't," Sirius said, peering at her profile shrewdly. Unlike him, his mother was a master at masking what was really going through her head—he couldn't guess at what she was thinking. "She's my friend James's wife. You didn't really think I'd up and gotten hitched, did you?"

"The things you're capable of have long since ceased to shock me," his mother replied, with long-suffering dignity. He made a derisive sound in the back of his throat.

"Well, you needn't worry about _that_. I'm not _ever_ getting married."

His mother's eyes flashed with displeasure and he flinched. Mrs. Black noticed, and when she turned back to the cauldron to light the fire under it, her expression was distinctly pleased.

"That's a very childish attitude," she remarked, idly. He stretched out his legs and put his now healed arm behind his head, leaning back and looking at the ceiling in a carefree sort of way. The toilet, alas, made the action less elegant than it usually was.

"It's the truth—why would I want to?" he said, cavalierly. "What a complete bore."

"Don't be absurd," she snapped, the bright blue flame that came out of her wand flaring up dangerous hot. "Of course you'll get married and have children. What else would you do?"

"Why are we even talking about this?" he said, sitting up straight again. Walburga didn't reply, and the shutters went up behind her eyes again, leaving her son more perplexed than ever.

He studied her for a moment, and realized with a jolt that beneath her studied haughtiness she was actually ill at ease.

This night had been among the most surreal in his life—but for the first time since he had walked into the living room to find his mother and father hovering over Reggie, it occurred to Sirius that it was just as surreal for them. In their wildest dreams they had not imagined being stuck in their runaway blood traitor son's London flat on Albus Dumbledore's orders, anymore than _he_ had imagined his mother dressing wounds he had sustained fighting the sons of the people she regularly socialized with.

There was no set protocol for any of this.

All that was left for them, then, was to rehash ancient disputes—things that shouldn't, that couldn't matter anymore, for what else could they do? It was the only script the two of them knew. Sirius had never rehearsed this moment, had gone about his life from the moment he'd fled Grimmauld Place with the certainty that he would never have to speak to either of them again.

It was easier, cleaner, to think of them just as they were _that night_ —just as it had been easier when Reg was another faceless Death Eater, not his scrawny teenage brother collapsed on the sofa, shivering from a fever.

Now…now he didn't know what to think. It didn't help that she still smelled of camellias and rosewater, still wore the same pearls, still made him feel like a bleeding eight-year-old with a single withering glance.

He had never considered what facing her would be like—and if he had, he was sure he would not have conjured this scene of her stooping to mix him up a potion in his dirty loo.

"Look," Sirius sighed, heavily, the awkwardness too unbearable for even him. "I know it's not…forget about me. Let's just—stick to talking about…safe things."

She looked up, fleetingly, then back down at the boomslang skin she was dicing with her wand.

"Fine," she agreed, cooly.

"So, where's dad gotten to?" he asked, fidgeting slightly in his seat. He wished she wasn't blocking the only exit.

"He's looking after Regulus," she said, evenly. "Let me see your face."

He turned towards her and she reached out for his chin—this time pulling it towards her more gently.

"Father playing nursemaid?" Sirius snorted. "Wonders will never cease—ouch."

She'd put her wand up to his face and muttered a spell over it—Sirius felt his face heat up, and out of the corner of the mirror saw it glow and spark, repelling whatever Mrs. Black had tried to do it.

"Hm," she murmured. "Stubborn."

"Me or the curse?"

"Both," he replied, promptly. "Happily, the curse doesn't talk back."

"How do you even know about it, anyway?" he asked, with trepidation. "The cyst…"

"Cycticero curse?"

"Yes…that."

"Oh, I've come across it once or twice," she said, vaguely. He shot her a sideways look.

"Ever cast it on someone?" he asked, in a would-be casual voice.

"If I had, I wouldn't be likely to tell you, would I?" she said, which was frankly more disconcerting than a flat denial would've been. "It's a favorite of the Rosiers."

"Explains a lot about Aunt Druella, frankly."

"Don't be rude," she chastened him. Still holding his face, she took out a stopper with the other hand and dipped it into the cauldron. "Drink this."

He considered telling her he was fairly certain it had been Evan Rosier who had cast it on him, and that she had just all but confirmed the suspicion, but decided it was better not to draw attention to that particular aspect of their current situation.

"What is it?" he said, eying the potion warily—her grip on his chin had, naturally, tightened the moment he showed an inclination to slip out of it.

"It's to stop your mind from being addled," she said, crossly.

"A bit late for that, isn't it?" She poked him with her wand. "Alright, alright—I'll drink it."

He took one gulp and grimaced.

"That's foul," he choked. "Merlin, that's even worse than the Animagus potion—"

"How on _earth_ would you know that?" she said, sharply.

Cursing his own idiocy, he fixed his face—in as much as he could move it at all, between her holding him and the painful gash on his cheek—into an expression of cherubic innocence.

"Erm…there's no reason," he said, staring into her hawklike eyes and hoping he didn't look too much like a rabbit. "I don't, I mean."

He took another gulp of potion—it was even worse the second time around—keenly aware that his mother was still eyeing him with deep suspicion.

"So—" He cast his mind around for something to deflect from his dabbling in highly illegal magical activities, then remembered the nonverbal exchanged he'd witnessed between his parents. "—That locket."

She was still very close to his face, muttering some kind of odd healing spell over it, so he could see the involuntary twitch in her jaw.

"What about it?" she said, running one finger along the right side of his cheek. He shivered.

"Do you know what it is?" Sirius asked, giving her a probing look which she returned.

"I have a…suspicion," she answered, finally. "Which I suspect you share."

He nodded, slowly—so she _had_ known.

"Do you think Dad—" She pushed his head back and dripped a few drops of some acidic substance over the gash, which sizzled at the touch. "—knows as well?"

"That's neither here nor there," his mother said, evasively. "It's late. Your brother will be asleep by now—and you should be as well."

"'Should be'," he snorted—but as soon as she'd said the words he felt the creep of exhaustion in his bones and he had to stifle a yawn. "Says who?"

He looked over in the mirror again—and was surprised to see that the gash, while not gone, was already fading. He touched it experimentally—the wound had sealed itself, and though it was callused, it no longer stung.

"Says any witch or wizard with sense," his mother said, snappily. "It's the middle of the night and you've been cursed."

"But I'm fine now! Anyway, are _you_ going to sleep?" She ignored the question, instead putting her bottles back in the kit with brisk efficiency. She didn't seem tired in the slightest, though the night's events had certainly aged her. "Look, I'll just stay up and watch Reg with you, and when Dumbledore gets back—"

"Kreacher!"

With a loud CRACK the elf appeared on the sink; Sirius jumped back in surprise, hitting his head on the edge of the cupboard. He swore loudly and glared at Kreacher.

"Can you _warn_ me before you summon him?" he complained, massaging the back of his head.

"Mistress called Kreacher?" said the elf, in a sibilant, fawning voice.

"Yes," she said, imperiously. "Go into the bedroom and light a fire for Master Sirius, he's going to sleep."

"There isn't a fireplace in there for him to light, _Mother_ ," Sirius said, annoyed but not surprised at her attempts to railroad him. "And anyway, I told you I'm fine and I'm not going to bed."

"No fireplace?" Her eyes narrowed. "How on earth do you heat the place?"

"I don't, usually." She scoffed. "Muggles use electric heating, I don't generally bother. I like things a bit cooler than you do, not everyone likes living in a bloody furnace."

She ignored him and turned back to the elf.

"Fetch him a—glass of water, then." Mrs. Black gave a surreptitious gesture to the elf, then looked back over at her son, who had now stood up and was trying out his sea legs. Sirius was still swaying slightly, though it was clear it was from exhaustion rather than injuries. Kreacher's eyes gleamed in the young master's direction, then he bowed and scuttled out of the room.

"Let's go check on Regulus, then—"

"Wait a moment."

Walburga sidestepped and blocked his path to the door, deftly. Kreacher reappeared, carrying an old-fashioned silver tankard filled to the brim of what appeared to be water. His mistress bent over and took it from the elf, then held it out to her son.

"Have something to drink, first," she said, in a flat voice. Sirius looked down at it, instantly suspicious. "You must be thirsty."

"I can get my own water, thanks—"

"Don't be ridiculous," she said, not budging from her spot, still holding out the heavy tankard, practically wielding it like a weapon. Sirius stared at the tankard for a moment before looking directly in her eyes.

"…What is it, really?" he asked, crossing his arms. Mrs. Black didn't even blink at the implied accusation.

"What did you hear me order the elf to get?" his mother asked, patiently.

"Water."

"And have you ever known my servants to disobey a direct order?"

"No," he answered, reluctantly.

"So then, what do you suppose it is?"

"Water, of course," he said, through gritted teeth. His mother's cocked her head in a slightly condescending manner she knew he had always hated.

"And are you afraid of drinking a glass of water, now?" she asked, sarcastically.

"Of course I'm not _afraid_ —" Sirius snatched the tankard out of her hand and took a large gulp. Instantly his knees buckled and he had to grab the towel rack to keep from sliding to the ground. His mother watched him half flop over with her characteristic impassivity; the elf had caught the goblet in midair with magic, evidently expecting that this would happen.

"Kreacher, help him up," she ordered the elf, who shuffled over to Sirius and pulled him to his feet using a combination of magic and rough force. He and Mrs. Black managed to push the elder son out of the tiny lavatory and into the hallway; he toppled against the wall and had to be pulled upright again by his mother.

"You—lied to me!" he muttered, furiously. He could already feeling his eyelids drooping, and his attempt to push her hand off his shoulder failed, his limbs felt like jelly.

"No I didn't—it _was_ water."

"Yeah, water…laced with dreamless…sleeping draught."

"If you weren't so stubborn I wouldn't have to resort to such tricks, would I?" she pointed out, dryly and without an ounce of apparent guilt. "Now, where is the bedroom?"

He jerked his head towards a door across the hallway, and she and the house elf practically dragged him inside.

He was fading fast, but even with consciousness dimming Sirius was glad that there was not much to be embarrassed about in the bedroom—bare walls and a bed that was blessedly made when he flopped unceremoniously face-first onto it.

"You can't sleep like that, Sirius—" The voice was familiar, deeply familiar—and exasperated, he'd heard some variation on that phrase a hundred times, who was speaking to him—? "Turn over this instant, you silly boy."

Oh, right—her. He mumbled something extremely rude into the covers. Thankfully she only caught the gist of what had been said before he felt himself being forcibly turned over onto his back.

He blinked up at the ceiling—and then his mother's face swum into view. Sirius felt a dip in the bed—had she actually sat down next to him?

"Drink the rest of your potion, now," Walburga said, firmly, holding the goblet up to his lips.

"I don't—" She tipped it back into his mouth and he swallowed on reflex. He had the dim realization that if he wasn't already half-drugged he probably would have spat it out on principle—only he really wanted to sleep, and her forcing him gave him an excuse, even if it _was_ mildly humiliating. Well—he supposed worse things had happened to him. Of course Reg had gotten out of this with more dignity—he would have bet galleons his little brother just drank the damn sleeping draught when he was told to.

The pressure on the bed lifted, and her face disappeared. There was the sound of something in the corner, and the drafty room was at once warm. He had a sneaking suspicion she had just vanished part of his wall and created a fireplace out of nothing, which would have been very funny if he didn't have a seven hundred quid deposit on this dump, and wasn't the manager going to be surprised when he found the extra chimney sticking out of the roof tomorrow?

Her face reappeared.

"I can tell you're still fighting it," she said, and maybe it was the sleepiness, but he was sure there was a hint of amusement in her voice. "Why must you always be like this?"

"Can't…let you…win…"

"I would say I already have," she told him, softly, watching him fight a losing battle with his own eyelids. He felt a sensation around his feet—Kreacher must've taken off his sneakers, because she was still gazing at him, and he could feel her small, strong hand resting on his good arm. "At least this time."

"Thanks for…y'know…fixing me up," he murmured, sleepily. She didn't say anything for a long moment, and her face swam in and out of sight. For some reason he wished he could see her.

"You're welcome," Mrs. Black said, quietly, at last.

"G'night…" He shifted his head a little on the pillow that had been tucked underneath his head. "…Mother."

A gentle voice replied, hardly above a whisper. He couldn't quite make out what it said, but it warmed him, recalled some distant childhood feeling of security he had not known in many years.

As he drifted off, Sirius's last conscious thought was that it felt as though a piece of his sweat-drenched hair, stubbornly stuck to his forehead all evening, had been carefully pushed out of the way.


	2. Part Two

_"'_ _Master Sirius ran away, good riddance, for he was a bad boy and broke my Mistress's heart with his lawless ways. But Master Regulus had proper pride; he knew what was due to the name of Black and the dignity of his pure blood. For years he talked of the Dark Lord, who was going to bring the wizards out of hiding to rule the Muggles and the Muggle-borns . . . and when he was sixteen years old, Master Regulus joined the Dark Lord. So proud, so proud, so happy to serve . . .'"_

 _-J.K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows_

 **PART TWO**

She knew she ought to have gotten up the minute he fell asleep and checked on Regulus—but now that he was quiet and calm and dozing fitfully on the filthy coverlet in this _sty_ of a Muggle holding pen, she could not seem to tear her eyes away.

Perhaps it was because she had not had the chance to examine him unimpeded for many years. She told herself it was mere curiosity that kept her staring hungrily at his face—that and the fact that it was the only part of him not offensively clad in common Muggle garments she itched to remove.

Her firstborn mumbled something unintelligible in his sleep and tried to roll over onto his stomach again. Mrs. Black held him down by the shoulder—he would suffocate himself with the pillow, and what a waste of all her potion ingredient stores if he did—and he frowned and nestled into the bed, at last, apparently, giving up the fight.

At least for now.

That stubborn lock of hair had fallen back into his face, and reflexively she reached out to move it, letting his hand rest on his cheek for a moment longer than was strictly necessary. His forehead was warm—though not as warm as Regulus's. Perhaps the fire really _was_ too hot…

The door opened slowly behind her, and she knew the confident, measured steps that followed as well as she knew her own. They stopped at the foot of the bed, but she didn't turn around. The prospect of looking directly from one to the other when Sirius had grown so like _him_ was too much for her to bear.

"How long has he been asleep?" Mr. Black asked, quietly.

"Not long," she said, shortly, letting her hand drop to her lap. Her husband made a 'hn' noise in the back of his throat.

"The elf said he was resisting," he remarked, casually. "How'd you manage this?"

"Dreamless sleeping draught in the water." Orion snorted.

"That's an old trick," he said, dryly.

"Yes, well—" She arched one eyebrow. "— _Your son_ thinks he's far cleverer than he really is."

There was the sound of rustling behind her—the fabric of his heavy, silk-lined robes. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, something he always did when he was thinking.

"So he's my son again, is he?" Orion asked, lightly, sitting down on the foot of the bed next to her. Walburga was still facing in the other direction, but her shoulders tensed.

"Don't be absurd," she said, still staring at the sleeping Sirius. "Nothing—nothing's changed."

There was a long stretch of silence. She felt Orion shift on the bed and turn in her direction.

"Do you really believe that?" he asked her, quietly.

"Of course I do—" she said, twisting the fabric of her dress in her lap, overcome with a sudden wave of outrage. "Look at him, where he's living—rubbing shoulders with filth, dressed like a common Muggle, acting as errand boy to that _fool_ —"

"Walburga—"

She ignored him, her voice rising in volume, instead.

"—Selfish, uncaring, a complete disgrace to the family name, he's only gotten worse—"

"Walburga," he chastised her, irritably. "You're going to wake him up!"

"Good," she spat, twisting around and turning on her husband, her face blotchy with anger. "He _should_ wake up, what right has he to rest, after everything he's put me through, he ought to—"

When she caught sight of his face his wife abruptly smothered the end of her tirade. Orion was staring at her with a calm, knowing expression that put her out of sorts. Wordlessly, he pulled something small and square out of the breast pocket of his robes and held it out to her.

"What is that?" she asked, eyeing it with deep suspicion.

"It's a handkerchief," her husband replied, calmly.

"And what," she scoffed, not taking it from his still-outstretched hand. "Am I supposed to do with it, precisely?"

"Wipe your eyes," he replied, quietly. "You're crying."

She stared up at him, trembling slightly.

"I am _not_ crying," Mrs. Black said, in her haughtiest voice, but it caught in a very telling way. Her husband's mouth twitched.

"You are," he corrected her—and to her immense shock and horror, actually reached out with the bit of cloth and touched it to her face. "See?"

The silk square had a small drop of moisture from the spot on her cheek he had dabbed with it. Walburga snatched the handkerchief from his hand and stuffed it in her lap.

"That doesn't prove anything," she hissed. "And anyway—what—what reason do I have to…"

He tilted his head a fraction—in the direction of the sleeping boy on the bed. Mrs. Black gave him a look so heated it could've melted glass.

"You think I'm a sentimental fool, is that it?" she asked, acidly.

"I never said that," he replied, mildly, standing up and crossing to the front of the bed to examine his errant son more closely. Sirius snored softly, every minute or so murmuring something unintelligible and shifting over on his side. Evidently his injured arm still stung, because each time he rolled onto it the boy let out an undignified groan and shifted back the other way.

He watched his eldest repeat this cycle twice and turned back to his wife, a definite smile tugging at his lips, now.

"He never could make things easy for himself, could he?"

She didn't smile back.

"What _are_ you saying, Orion?" Her gray eyes narrowed, and he sobered again.

"I'm saying…" Mr. Black paused, considering his next words carefully. "That it's only natural. You're a woman who's been through a terrible shock—"

"What does _being a woman_ have to do with it?" she interrupted, peevishly.

"Oh, for God's sake—" he snapped, losing his own temper. "You've been _clucking_ over him for the past hour like a mother hen with her chick."

With a cry of rage, Walburga stood up and actually brandished her wand at him, expression livid. Mr. Black, to his credit, did not even blink as he looked down at his half-incensed wife.

"Put that away, woman," he ordered her, unflinchingly, staring her square in the eyes. "My two idiotic sons have provided me enough theatrics for a lifetime tonight, I refuse to take them from my wife as well. Control yourself, or by Salazar, I will _make_ you."

She froze in shock at being spoken to this way—nobody had ever dared, least of all him. Slowly—still glaring at him in defiance—she lowered her wand.

"Mum…" Sirius broke the silence between his parents with a low whimper. They both turned to him, surprised—even asleep, he was cognizant enough to recognize one of his father's rare displays of temper and be irritated by it. "Make Dad…shut up…"

Sirius groped for the spare pillow and pulled it over his face, as if trying to block the noise. Walburga promptly burst into tears; within seconds Orion crossed the three feet that separated them and pulled her, stiffly, into his arms.

"There, there," he soothed, gruffly, softly stroking her back—she had buried her face in the front of his robes to muffle the racking sobs. "I told you to use the handkerchief, didn't I?"

She didn't answer, didn't dare look at him—so he gave his wife a few moments to calm herself down. Walburga's breathing steadied after a minute or so, but she didn't move to extricate herself from his arms.

Orion savored this rarest of sensations—being a comfort to his strong, proud wife.

"Maybe we _should_ wake him up," he murmured into her hair, voice brimming with amusement. "I think he'd be quite interested to see you falling to pieces over him—"

"Orion Black!" she screeched, pulling out of his arms, livid again. "If you _ever_ tell him I swear I shall—" He started to laugh. "—What, pray tell, is so damned amusing?"

"You are," he answered, promptly, and he strode past her to the crackling fireplace, waved his wand, and conjured a high-backed winged chair. "The one in the other room almost died tonight defying the Dark Lord, and it's _this_ one that has you in a snit."

Walburga passed over her younger son's exploits and derring-do with a dismissive snort as her husband settled himself in the chair.

"I'm sure Regulus is fine," she said, stomping around the end of the bed and settling herself back down. Absently, she rested one hand on Sirius's exposed ankle. He twitched at the touch, then stilled again. "How—is he?"

"Sleeping. That girl and the elf are watching over him." Orion leaned back in the chair. The firelight danced over his face, emphasizing the heavy lines in his cheeks and around his eyes. "I still can't quite believe he did it…"

"Oh, honestly—who do you think is _really_ to blame for what happened tonight?" his wife said, fixing him with a superior look. " _His_ influence is all over this."

He steepled his fingers and looked past her at the sleeping boy, considering him thoughtfully.

"What did you say when you asked him?"

"He denied it, of course," she said, curling her hand around the ankle and squeezing it—he tried to kick her off but she only gripped tighter. "He claims he had nothing to do with turning his brother against the Dark Lord, but we both know him to be a deceitful boy—"

"He _could_ be telling the truth," he replied, trying to be reasonable. "If he was responsible, it's not as though he'd hide it."

She rolled her eyes heavenward, indicating that believed her husband was almost as much of a naive fool as the children he had sired.

"Do you truly think Regulus would have done something so foolhardy and reckless," she snapped, impatiently. "If Sirius hadn't planted the notion in his head first?"

"Maybe," he said, wearily. "Perhaps we've—underestimated Regulus."

"We haven't," she replied, mulishly. "I'm telling you, he's just acting out because of—"

"—They're neither of them children anymore, Walburga," her husband interrupted, gently.

His wife glared at him for a moment, the firelight dancing in her eyes as she considered whether there was any validity to his point.

"They aren't _grown men_ , that's for certain."

To her supreme annoyance, her husband had the temerity to shrug.

"I don't know—Sirius is quite sure of himself," he observed, casually. "He always was, but—the last few years he's apparently quite come into his own. Dueling five men single-handedly and coming out alright is no mean feat."

Typical man, she thought, dueling and Quidditch were all that mattered to them.

"Are you _blind_ , Orion?" she said, waving her wand around at the room indignantly. "Have you seen the state of this place? Your son, a firstborn son of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, is living—" She paused in order to arrange her face in an expression of the deepest revulsion. "— _Here_."

This dramatic statement did not have the desired effect of horrifying her husband. He—idiotic man—actually seemed to be resigned. Orion shrugged again. Walburga suddenly itched to pull out her wand once more, hang his orders.

"It seems to suit him well enough." Her nostrils flared dangerously—and he leaned back in the chair again, out of the light, so his wife missed the small smile dancing on his face.

"I could _kill_ Alphard," she huffed, changing the subject abruptly. Orion raised one eyebrow.

"What good would _that_ do? He's already dead," Mr. Black pointed out, blandly indifferent. Mrs. Black was very glad he did not have a newspaper, because she was sure he would now lift it up and bury his face in it if he did.

"Not by my hand," she muttered, darkly. "He's lucky, he got off easy, if I had my way he'd be—"

"Be sensible, Walburga," her husband cut off the string of threats, abruptly. "You know in your heart that even if your brother _hadn't_ left him the gold, he still wouldn't have come back to us."

She went very still.

"Who said anything—" Her eyes were burning in her face, the traces her her tears still visible in the firelight. "—About him _coming back_?"

"…Nobody did," he replied, in a carefully modulated, almost too-neutral tone of voice. Mrs. Black's eyes narrowed.

"The very idea is—ludicrous."

"I agree."

"He's—he's—" He was considering her so calmly—what an infuriating man! "You know what he is—and you know what we've done."

"I do," Orion agreed.

"There's no coming back from it."

"That's true." Somehow his careful, studied agreeableness was more maddening than if he'd been arguing with her.

"Even if I—even if we…" She didn't dare say the words he was trying, oh-so-delicately, to wrest from her. "Even if we wanted to, we couldn't take him back!"

"Which is just as well, as he clearly hasn't the slightest interest in returning," he remarked, conversationally. Instantly she saw red—the idea that he didn't care, that he was perfectly fine without them, was what offended her—he was still too stupid to realize what he'd thrown away with both hands.

"He's a hateful, thankless urchin," she spat, poisonously, turning to glare daggers at the sleeping boy. "And I wouldn't have him back in the house for all the galleons in Gringotts."

"So then we're all agreed," he said, his expression still impossible to read. "We don't matter to him and he doesn't matter to us. Things are as they have been."

Mr. Black stood up from the chair and stretched, as if the whole matter was rather dull and he would be glad to be done with it.

"Shall we go in the other room and—" He paused significantly. "—See to our son, then?"

She did not move to follow him.

"Don't you play games with me, Orion Black—" She said, crossing her hands in front of her chest and glaring at him. "What are you driving at, precisely?"

"I think you know."

"Well you're going to have to spell it out for me, because I'm afraid I don't understand."

He crossed back over to her and put one hand on her shoulder, gently but firmly.

"I'm merely pointing out," he said, with surprising patience. "That you hadn't spoken his name aloud in three years, and five minutes after he walks in the room you're correcting his posture and telling him who he ought to marry—"

"I said nothing of the kind!" she spat.

"You were thinking it, I'd wager," Orion laughed. "Tell me the truth—when you cornered him in the lavatory, the subject came up."

"We talked about—" She blinked and looked away. "A—great many things. I can't remember."

"The elf was listening at the door."

"So you're having my own servants spy on me now, are you?" she snapped, jabbing her wand in his chest. He pushed it back down with his hand, smirking.

"He spies on your behalf all the time," Orion pointed out, rolling his eyes. "You needn't worry about Kreacher turning on you. He's only worried about his mistress having her heart broken again, that's all."

The way in which he said it suggested it was not only the house-elf who was afraid of Mrs. Black getting hurt.

"What a stupid, feckless creature," she said, blinking back tears again. "When we get home, remind me to tell him to box his own ears."

"What else did you talk about when you were shut up together?" Orion pressed, gently. She wrinkled her nose in displeasure at the mere memory.

"Oh, a lot of nonsense—" She sniffed and looked back down at him. "He blames _us_ for all of this."

"Naturally," Orion snorted.

"He said—" Walburga pursed her lips. "He said that Regulus only joined with The Dark Lord's followers because he was trying to _please us_. Can you imagine?"

"That's…not an entirely inaccurate picture, I'd say."

"And—" She pressed on, remembering the more irritating aspects of her conversation. "And he claims he's _never_ getting married. What utter drivel."

"What were you expecting?" he laughed, dryly. "He's a good-looking lad of twenty and he's been out from under his mother's thumb for three years. I daresay he's enjoying himself."

The expression on Mrs. Black's face suggested that if that _were_ the case, she'd be putting a stop to it as soon as she was able.

"Are you saying you think there's…" She trailed off threateningly. "… _Women_?"

"God help him if there is, if you get wind of it," he remarked, frankly. "I said he was a man—not a wise one. He may settle down…eventually."

"If he doesn't get himself killed first," she sniffed.

"Or go the Andromeda route and marry low," he added, lightly. Her eyes flashed dangerously. "You don't care, dear, remember?"

"What are you trying to get me to admit?" she said, brushing past him and walking towards the fire to tend to it. "It's not as though I sought him out— _Regulus_ is the one who dragged his treacherous brother back into our lives, not me."

"He _has_ put us in a rather tenuous situation," her husband agreed. Mr. Black wondered if perhaps Regulus was shrewder than his mother or older brother would give him credit for. He already seemed in better spirits now that Sirius was drawing away attention from him—and considering he'd almost died, that was suggestive.

"I wonder what else he's been hiding."

"He went to Sirius for help before he came to us," Orion said, soberly. "That's telling."

"I'll admit, it's been a—shock, seeing him again," she conceded, back silhouetted by the fire. "I never expected it, I'm sure you didn't either. I may have—lost control of my senses, briefly."

"And now you're in complete control of them, I'm sure."

"I am."

"You're taking exactly the tact he wants you to, you know," he said, glancing down at the bed again.

"What you mean?" she asked, sharply, spinning around.

"You must realize what Regulus has done—the gravity of it. Now that he's gone to Dumbledore, that Muggle-loving fool will be expecting our cooperation. Which we may or may not give," he added, cooly. "The point is that if it's occurred to the boy that he'll be seeing more of us—"

"What?" she prompted him—but, he saw, with some satisfaction, that she actually wanted to hear his thoughts.

"—He'll be scheming ways to keep you out of his affairs. And that'll include trying to provoke you into silent treatments."

"And you think I don't want that?" she said, cooly, turning up his nose. "What could I _possibly_ have to say to him after all this time?"

He rubbed his temples—Merlin, she really was a stubborn woman, wasn't she?

"Please—you're just as bad as the boy is." Walburga's face flushed scarlet. "Worse, actually, as you ought to know better."

"What—" she demanded, advancing on him. "Does _that_ mean?"

He wouldn't be cowed—he was done with this entire night, and particularly with her. At least the boys had had the good sense to go to sleep.

"Well, he didn't get the obstinacy and the Mount Vesuvius temper from _my_ branch of the family, did he?" She opened her mouth to protest but Orion plowed on—he'd been wanting to say it for years, clearly.

"He's just like you! Two peas in a bleeding pod. That's why you've always fought, that's why he's always been your favorite and it's why you want him back. I don't care what he's done, after twenty-five years of marriage he's the only person I've ever seen best you—I don't think for a moment you'd let a second chance to get one over on him slip by. It's not in your nature to run from a fight, and luckily for you, it's not in _his_ either, so you can look forward to a long, drawn out battle that I'm sure you'll both enjoy _immensely._ "

She opened and closed her mouth, looking for all the world like a very well-bred, very proud goldfish, then collapsed in defeat at the foot of her son's bed. Orion sat down next to her, and they watched Sirius sleep in silence for a long while. He crinkled his forehead, as if sensing the discord between his parents.

"What has happened tonight?" she asked, in a small voice.

"I haven't the faintest idea."

"And to us?"

"Pure madness." He paused. "Maybe we'll wake up tomorrow and this will have all been a dream."

" _He_ wishes," she said, quietly. For once Sirius did not contradict her—just snored gently, peacefully. "…I am sorry that I lost my temper."

"It's alright," he replied, tucking a stray curl that had fallen out of her chignon behind her ear. "I told you I understood."

"I shouldn't be…" She turned her head to look at him. He felt an almost overwhelming urge to reassure her. "I shouldn't be acting this way."

"Walburga," he chastised, gently. "I would be more worried if you weren't."

The woman's lip trembled as she turned back towards the bed.

"It's just that he—" Her voice caught. "He looks just like _you_ at that age. The spitting image."

"I would never disgrace myself by wearing _that_ ," her husband said, squeezing her hand. Mrs. Black had begun to cry again, very quietly—until she felt the pressure, and then she was no longer trying to hide it.

"You're right," she smothered a sob into the handkerchief. "It's like he's _trying_ to look common."

"But he doesn't," the boy's father said, with grim satisfaction. He was so clearly one of them—in those Muggle clothes he looked like a child playing dress-up, it was obvious to anyone with half a brain what Sirius really was. It was very gratifying to think how hard he had to be trying to hide what he was—and to such little effect it was working.

'Black' might as well have been stamped on his face.

"Yes, that's what makes it so absurd," she said, tucking back another stray strand of hair behind his ear, absently. "Who does he think he's fooling?"

"Himself, I'd imagine." He looked down at the wound on the boy's face. "He won't have a scar?"

"No—no, I've seen to that," she said, confidently. He wrapped his arm around her waist and pulled her closer. They hadn't been this close—physically, or in any other way—in a long time.

"What are we going to do?"

"I don't know."

It was gratifying to hear him voice what she herself was feeling so keenly.

"There'll be time enough to think about it tomorrow, I suppose," she said, trying to be practical. "Imagine…both of them asleep under one roof again."

"Who'd have thought it?"

"They might've both died tonight," she said, hollowly. He squeezed her waist in what was supposed to be comforting, but only served to remind her how tired she was. Tired and heartsick.

"Don't be silly, woman," Orion said, softly. "Our sons are too clever."

There was a soft knock on the door, and it opened a crack.

"Mr. Black, I've made up a bed for you and your—" Lily stopped in the doorway. The Blacks immediately broke apart, and Sirius's mother hastily wiped her eyes and shoved the handkerchief back in her husband's hand. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean—"

"It's perfectly fine," Mrs. Black said, briskly, standing up. "We were just going to go check on the other—on our son, anyway."

"Yes, well—I was just coming to say I've made up a bed for you, in the living room, if you'd like it." Their identical expressions of mild distaste were not encouraging, but Lily pressed on, with a smile. "Your house-elf helped me. He seems—sweet," she finished, lamely.

Sirius's parents exchanged knowing looks—a person who called an elf 'sweet' was either soft like their younger son, or not someone they would generally associate with.

"How's Sirius?" Lily asked, in a quiet voice, edging around Mr. Black to get a glimpse of her friend.

"Asleep, now—thankfully," his mother said, without the barest hint of annoyance. Lily suppressed a grin.

"I hope he didn't give you a hard time," she said, sympathetically. "Oh—he looks so much better, Mrs. Black! You did a wonderful job."

She kneeled next to Sirius by the bed and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. Behind her, Mrs. Black pursed her lips.

"Poor Padfoot," Lily said, laughing quietly and patting him on the shoulder. "I suppose you wouldn't be _you_ if you didn't get yourself into trouble, though."

"What did you call him?"

Lily stood up and turned around: to her surprise, Sirius's mother was fixing her with one of the penetrating stares she'd noticed the older woman liked to use on her sons. It made Lily uneasy, but she tried not to let it show.

"Oh—it's a…a silly nickname that he and my husband use," she laughed, nervously. "From when they were in school."

"What does it mean?"

"Oh—it's…" Lily bit her lip. "Erm…some private joke between all of them, their gang of friends, I mean. I've never really thought about what it means!"

Even to her own ears, Lily's story sounded extremely unconvincing.

Mrs. Black's eyes narrowed in suspicion, but she let the subject drop without comment and swept out of the room, her husband at her heels. As they soon as they were gone Lily collapsed into the wing-backed chair.

"You weren't kidding about her, Sirius," she said, shaking her head and staring into the dying embers of the fire—how long had that been there?—trying to grasp everything that had happened and failing utterly.

Her friend's response was another loud snore. Lily rolled her eyes and looked over at him—and she felt another stab of concern. This situation would've been a lot to deal with for anyone, and Sirius, bless his heart, was clearly less equipped to handle it than most.

She had a feeling that, as regarded his family, at least—things would get worse before they got better.

As she stared into the dying fire, the young witch was surprised to find the image from this night that was fixed most vividly in her brain was Sirius's mother, trying so desperately to hide the fact that she'd been crying.

* * *

The first thing Sirius was consciously aware of was the fact that he was very, very warm.

The second was that he was cosseted—practically _cocooned_ by blankets in his bed in a way that he would have never done himself but, in this moment, at least, felt quite cozy. There was something safe and familiar about it that brought back vague associations of the distant past. He nestled into his covers, wondering why, on this particular day, they were so soft?

The third—and this was the thought that niggled at him, despite the fact that he was quite drowsy and was just about to drift back into blissful oblivion—was that his arm _hurt like hell_.

 _Oh, shit._

He bolted upright in bed. Bright light streamed into his bedroom—it had to be mid-morning, far later than he would've usually woken up. He stared at the fireplace directly across from him, a few embers still smoldering feebly in the grate, and for a moment was utter bewildered.

"What the—"

Then he remembered everything: who had shown up on his doorstep last night, going to Dumbledore, the Death Eaters in Hogsmeade (that had been a far closer escape than he wanted to admit), coming back here and finding… _them_.

 _She_ had put that fireplace in his room, he remembered now. She had…she…

She had put one of her own coverlets on the bed.

He pushed back the blankets—they were tucked around the mattress so tightly that it basically amounted to him being strapped in—and stumbled out of bed. Sirius's legs felt like lead, for a brief moment his knees buckled and he thought he was going to fall over again. He steadied himself against the bedside table, painfully aware that the adrenaline of the previous night had worn off, leaving him sore beyond all reckoning. He touched his the cut on his face and hissed in pain—it was still raw to the touch.

Then he looked down at his arm injury, only to find a long sleeve and another unpleasant surprise.

He was wearing a pair of green and silver silk pajamas that definitely were not his, that he would never have consciously, willingly put on, and that—a quick glance at the mirror over the cluttered dresser confirmed this—almost certainly _belonged to his father_.

The full horror of this rolled over him in waves—this had to be a violation of actual law, as far as he was concerned—and then a thought struck him, born of twenty years of knowledge of the way Walburga Black's mind worked, and he stumbled over to the dresser and started pulling out drawers.

Socks and undergarments were still in the top, and so he breathed a sigh of relief (he had been wrong, then—never was he so glad to be wrong!). Sirius leaned against the dresser like he'd run a marathon, then remembered the degradation he had apparently suffered when he was unable to defend himself—if his father's pajamas were surprisingly comfortable, that was not the point—and he opened the next drawer down to pull out a t-shirt and jeans to change into.

But the next drawer was empty. Horrified, he pulled out drawer after drawer—all completely empty. Seeing red, he stomped over to the closet and wrenched opened the door.

Usually this was the spot where his dress shirts and slacks hung—things he wore on the occasional date with a girl he'd met in Mayfair—his old school robes, his cloak—and the pride of his wardrobe, the black leather motorcycle jacket he'd found at a flea market in Bournemouth.

In their place were five sets of handsome, if rather old-fashioned, robes. They were silk-detailed in various tasteful colors, impeccably tailored, and Sirius would have bet money that they had _also_ once belonged to his father.

He slammed the closet door shut and scowled. Of _course_ she had. Sirius should have trusted his initial instincts. She couldn't just barge back into his life, she had to leave her claw marks wherever she went as well—including on his flat.

If she'd gotten rid of his motorcycle jacket, so help her…

He stalked over to the fireplace, moodily stared into the embers—then, against all instincts, examined the intricately carved edges of the mantle. Sirius had to admire it: it was a fantastically complex piece of magic, and very cleverly designed. If anyone but his mother tried to remove it, half the wall would come crashing down on them.

Beautiful and implacable: almost a perfect metaphor for Walburga Black herself.

He still couldn't quite believe they were here (were they still? He was afraid to check). Regulus showing up at his flat wanting help—wanting Dumbledore, of all people—had been a massive shock—all the more so when he realized what it was that his soft-in-the-head Slytherin Death Eater of a little brother had actually _done_. But Regulus had been a part of his life in the past three years—school had kept them in each other's orbit, and fighting on opposite sides of a war meant that, whether they liked it or not, each had _some_ idea of what the other was up to.

His parents, on the other hand…he had not seen either one of them since the night he ran away from home.

When he had first graduated Sirius had often wondered if he would bump into them somewhere—in Diagon Alley or the Ministry, the few times he was there—but as time had passed and that run-in didn't happened, it had become easier and easier to pretend it never would. Sirius put them out of his mind, to the point where he had been quite content not to think he had a mother and father at all.

Last night had been a very painful reminder.

He felt the sleeve of the pajamas absently. It was very soft, a little frayed—these must've been one of Orion's older sets. He thought he recognized it from one of the few times he had dared to disturb his parents after bedtime—sneaking into their bedchamber seemed a grand adventure at age eight. It had been worth the walloping with the broomstick to see mother, livid, in her nightdress.

Orion's shock upon seeing him last night had not been that different than it had been then. Of course, _then_ he had peaked his head out from under the bed and grinned up at his father like a monkey.

Their circumstances weren't exactly equivalent.

Orion…had not looked well. He seemed ill. Sirius found that more disconcerting than anything else—his father had never been ill a day in his life. And as for _her_ …well, she seemed alright, apparently her spite was still up, she'd had the energy to nick his clothes sometime when he was asleep.

He reached for the door handle and pulled it open, peaking his head out out into to the hallway. The coast was clear, he turned his head at the sound of rustling from the kitchen.

"Who's there?" he stage whispered. A young man—light brown hair, mild of expression, wearing a tatty sweater and looking tired but cheerful—turned and walked towards him. The second he realized who it was relief blossomed in his chest. "Remus—it's you!"

"Expecting someone else?" Remus Lupin asked, very composed—but there was a slight smile tugging at his lips.

"Never mind that now—who else is in the flat?" He said, still half-hidden by the doorway. His friend's smile grew broader.

"Just your brother on the sofa." Sirius let out a long and exaggerated sigh and stepped out into the hallway, snapping the door shut behind him.

"Thank God." He clapped Remus on the shoulder. "Let me tell you, I've never been happier to see you in my life, Moony."

"High praise indeed," his friend replied, gravely. His eyes took in the full effect of his taller friend's sartorial choices, and to Sirius's annoyance, smiled. "Nice pajamas."

"Ha- _ha_ ," he said, tossing his head—which only made Remus grin more. "Where's Lily?"

"She's gone back to Godric's Hollow to see James and rest. I'm the relief team," he said sobering up again. "She told me what happened. Is it true?"

"Which part?"

"All of it—any of it."

"You saw my brother in the other room, didn't you?" Remus nodded, slowly. "Yeah, well, he didn't call on me to have tea and biscuits, I'll say that. If it wasn't for Lily—"

"And—your parents were really here? In the flat? With Dumbledore?" Sirius gave him a dark look and jerked his head. "Merlin, that's insane."

"It's been a fucking _nightmare_ , Moony," Sirius said, dramatically, leaning against his bedroom door. "I walked into the room, they were standing there, and I swear, for a moment—just a _moment_ —I thought I must've died and gone to _hell_."

"I'm sure it wasn't _that_ bad."

"It was!" he insisted, indignantly waving about his arms. "I'm fairly certain at first she thought _I'd_ almost killed him, and if Dumbledore hadn't shown up, the old hag would've done me in!"

Remus gave him a sympathetic nod, but Sirius could tell he was being humored—it was a favorite Lupin trick.

"I heard you had quite the adventure getting the word out," his friend, wisely choosing to change the subject. "Are you alright?"

Moony looked concerned now, and Sirius noticed he was eyeing his cheek wound with apprehension.

"Oh, you know me—those wankers can't keep me down!" He tweaked Remus's nose affectionately—the shorter boy batted his hand away. "You worry too much."

"Lily said you were cursed rather badly and you almost fainted on your feet." Sirius scowled in half-hearted annoyance.

"Have I mentioned that she worries too much, too?" Remus opened his mouth to make a no-doubt reasonable point which Sirius absolutely had no interest in at present. "Is my brother awake?" Remus nodded. "How did he—seem?"

"Better than last night, from what I've been told. He's still weak," Remus said, nodding toward the kitchen door. "Yes—I was just going to get him breakfast, actually. Not that we've much to eat here—"

"Great. Thanks, Remus. I'll meet you in there. I've just got to—" A thought occurred to him as he opened the door to the bedroom again and he grimaced. "—Get dressed."

"What's the problem?" his friend, looking at him with curiosity.

"You'll see in a minute," Sirius grumbled, irritably, before darting into his bedroom and snapping the door shut behind him, leaving his blinking, bemused friend outside.

Remus _did_ see in a minute—when, carrying the meagre plate of scrambled eggs (the best he could whip up under the circumstances, it was lucky Sirius had eggs in the fridge that hadn't gone off) out to Regulus, he bumped into his friend at the door to the sitting room.

"Not a word." Sirius shoved open the door and gestured for Remus to go ahead of him, which he did—without comment.

Regulus was sitting up on the sofa, propped up by several pillows that had been brought in by the Blacks, clearly—they were far cleaner than anything in Sirius's apartment—and on the sideboard next to him there was a flagon of potion and an old-fashioned lamp with a silver, serpent-shaped handle. He was also wearing silk pajamas (though as they fit him, they were likely his own) and was pale—though he definitely looked better than he had arrived at the flat.

When his brother entered the room he looked up and stared.

Remus crossed the room, passing in front of Sirius, and brought the eggs to Regulus—who wasn't looking at him, but at his older brother, still hovering awkwardly at the door.

"Here—see if you can keep these down," he said, gently, handing him the eggs and the fork, which the younger boy took obediently. He followed Reg's gaze to where it had, naturally, rested.

"Alright, I know you said not a word—" Remus stifled a laugh at Sirius's expression. "But I have to ask—are those _yours_?"

"I've course they're not bloody mine!" Sirius cried, violently gesturing to the handsome dark-green robes he was now sporting. There was velvet-detailing on the high-necked collar and sleeves, and the clasp was a fine silver medallion. They fit him perfectly. "Do I seem likely to keep robes that were fashionable in _1948_ lying about the place?"

"No, but—"

"Just say it Remus—what do I look like?" He crossed his arms. "I look like a poncy idiot, don't I? That's what you think."

"That's not what I was going to say," Remus said, mildly, looking sideways at Regulus—who was still oddly quiet, staring at his brother with a very closed-off expression. "Actually, I was going to say—"

" _What_?"

"—That I think they rather suit you," he finished, shrugging. "I mean—" He continued, enjoying how offended his friend looked. "They look a bit—'lord of the manor,' but…you _do_ have a bit of that way about you."

Sirius sniffed, very haughtily—proving Remus's point more than he would've liked. He crossed the room to his brother, who was watching the exchange impassively.

He bent down next to the younger Black and gave him a quick smile and a squeeze on the shoulder.

"How're you feeling, Reg?" he asked, with a pained smile his brother didn't return.

"I don't…" Regulus coughed, weakly. "Fine, I suppose."

His scrambled eggs lay untouched on the sideboard.

"You really need to eat something, Reggie—"

"I told you, I'm _fine_!" his brother snapped, quietly, blinking and looking down at the coverlet. Sirius rolled his eyes in Remus's direction, who walked up to the sideboard and picked up the plate of cold eggs with an apologetic look.

"Sorry—if you don't want that, I can go around the corner and get you something better," Remus said, in a friendly voice. He'd known Sirius's brother from when they were both prefects and liked him well enough—though like his parents, Regulus had a chip on his shoulder about all of Sirius's Gryffindor friends. "You've earned your breakfast of choice. It sounds as though you had a harrowing night."

"It was nothing, really," Regulus replied, cooly.

Sirius let out a bark of laughter.

"He's being modest, Remus. You should have heard Dumbledore," he paused, relishing his younger brother's embarrassment. "He'll be campaigning to get Reg an Order of Merlin for bravery."

"What did…" Regulus peaked up at his brother. "What did Mother say?"

"Oh, well—she was a different story entirely." Sirius smiled, ruefully. "She thinks you're an idiot and it's somehow all _my_ fault you nearly died. So—you know—not far from the usual in terms of maternal affection."

"Oh…"

Regulus stared down at the floor, looking thoughtful—to Remus he seemed upset. Sirius rolled his eyes at the ceiling.

"My brother is the only person alive who cares more what Walburga Black thinks than Albus Dumbledore," Sirius said, and his brother glared at him. "I told her I had nothing to do with it, but—"

"What about Father?" Regulus interrupted him. Sirius shrugged—the robes lent the gesture a casual elegance that made him look even more the indolent aristocratic son.

"I don't know—I haven't spoken on the matter with acting patriarch, yet. I lost track of him last night…"

Sirius frowned—he remembered hearing his father's voice in the bedroom, in angry tones, which was odd, because he was fairly certain his father and he hadn't had a fight, and who else would he be yelling at?

"Those are his robes," his brother remarked, unnecessarily, stirring Sirius from his thoughts. "Father's."

"Well spotted," Sirius snorted, plucking at the elegant silver fastener. "Who _else_ would be caught dead in something this old-fashioned?"

"I think they're nice," Remus chimed in with his two-cents. "I mean, they're of the old school, but that's not always bad."

"They look like something my father wore to a country dance before he was _wed,_ Remus."

"They fit you perfectly," his brother continued, staring up at his brother with undisguised envy. The corner of Sirius's mouth twitched in amusement; he leaned over his brother's bedside and clapped him on the shoulder.

"Tell you what, runt—" He pinched Regulus's ear. "—I'll have them hemmed for you, and _you_ can have them."

"I don't want them!" his brother said, hotly. "Anyway—you ought to keep them. You actually look dignified for once."

"I suppose you can guess why I'm wearing them?" Sirius said, giving him a pointed look. Remus frowned in confusion.

"…Did Mother get ahold of your Muggle togs?" Regulus asked, casually.

"She and that damned elf must've raided the bloody house when we were asleep," Sirius seethed. At his right side, Remus was blinking in utter bewilderment.

"Wait—you're not saying—?"

"She took everything! All my Muggle clothes minus the socks and pants, and if there were wizard versions of those I'm sure she'd have taken them, too. My leather jacket, Moony," he said, gesticulating with feeling. "You know, the one that cost seventy quid? Talk about holding a grudge, this must be her way of getting revenge three years late."

"You really think _that's_ why she did it?" Regulus asked, in disbelief. "To settle a score?"

"Well, what other reason does she have to care how I dress?" Sirius asked, frankly. "It's not like I'm her—concern, or anything, anymore. She saw an opening and took it, that's all."

Regulus pursed his lips in a very Mrs. Black sort of way and fixed his brother with a look somewhere between pity and disapproval. There was an awkward pause, before—

"Where _are_ Her Royal Majesty and the Prince Consort, anyway?"

"Mother and Father," Regulus said, coldly. "Went back to Grimmauld Place. She had callers this morning, a tea—"

"—Heaven forbid you getting mauled by an undead corpse interfere with her social calendar—"

"They didn't want to leave!" Regulus said, hotly, and Sirius deflated. "It's was Dumbledore's idea—he said they should act as if everything's normal, so they went back to Grimmauld Place—just for the morning."

Sirius blinked, slowly.

"Dumbledore came by again?"

"He came back to update Lily and your parents—and Regulus," Remus nodded toward the sofa. "That's when she sent the message and I came to take over watch. Your father and mother were gone by the time I got here."

"If Dumbledore was here, why didn't anybody wake me?" Sirius asked, visibly affronted.

"We were going to," Regulus said, a rising edge to his voice. "But Mother said you needed the rest, and that she had such a hard time getting you to sleep the first time—"

"Oh, yeah, I'm sure she had my best interests at heart," Sirius said, coldly. His brother's pale face—clammy with sweat—flushed scarlet.

"Did you even _thank_ Mother?" he asked, haughtily. "For looking after you, and taking care of those curses, and making sure you got to bed alright—she really saved you, you know. You could _pretend_ to be grateful, at least."

There was a tic in Sirius's jaw and he curled his lip.

"I'll be sure to send her flowers and a nice note," he said, sarcastically, and Regulus, to his great surprise, actually attempted to stand up.

"Were you this _awful_ to her last night?" he said, angrily, rising from the couch and wobbling badly. "If you were—"

"Remus!" Sirius shoved the still very-weak Regulus back down, with a huff—but he wasn't angry like his little brother—only exasperated. "Here—"

He pulled a ten pound note out of his pocket and gestured for Remus to take it. His friend stepped forward, clearly feeling very awkward about witnessing a family scene.

"Do me a favor, and go to the bakery around the corner—the French one, right? And get him a brioche, and some _pan au chocolat_ —something sweet." His brother turned his head contemptuously. Sirius softened. "He likes that sort of thing."

"Of course, Padfoot. I'll—" He tried to catch Regulus's eyes to give him an encouraging smile, but the younger Black was determinedly not looking in his direction. "I'll be back soon."

He grabbed the tenner and stuffed it in his pocket, grabbed his coat and opened the front door of the flat, leaving the two brothers alone. Regulus resolutely refused to meet his brother's eyes for a full minute.

"—Look," Sirius said, breaking the silence. "I don't want to fight about them. We've got plenty to row over without bringing Mum and Dad into it. For God's sake—you were a Death Eater until about eight hours ago!"

"And you blame them for that, too," Regulus said, in a resentful voice. His brother sat down on the edge of the couch next to him.

"Well, come on—you can't tell me you didn't think they'd be chuffed about it when you joined up, that that wasn't part of the reason—"

"They didn't even know," Regulus said, cooly. Sirius shot him a skeptical look. " _He_ doesn't let us tell anyone—the Death Eaters don't even know themselves everyone who's in the ranks. I was never to speak of it, least of all to Mother and Father."

"What a collegial work environment," Sirius said. "Well, they clearly weren't surprised last night, so they must've figured it out."

"Obviously. They aren't stupid." Sirius let out a low 'tch' noise but didn't contradict his high-strung brother.

"And I'm sure the 'I was just having tea at Malfoy Manor' excuse could only work so many times." Regulus laid his head back on the pillow. It reminded Sirus of when Reg had been sick as a small boy—their mother had always cushioned him this way, almost like he was a china doll. "So when they figured it out…what did they say?"

"Well, it wasn't…" His brother hesitated. "We didn't really…"

"What did they _say_ , Regulus?"

"I know what you're driving at," Regulus replied, quietly. "They might've thought it was—they might've approved at _first_ , but they aren't like the Dark Lord, Sirius. Father wouldn't…torture people just for the thrill of it—"

"Mum might," Sirius joked, quietly. Regulus death-glared at him. "…So, fine, they got cold feet. I can buy that—'revolution' is a rather messy business, of course—and with all the Muggle-borns dead, what would they have to complain about? Puts a real dent in the approved conversation topics—"

"Stop it!" his brother cut him off, suddenly angry. "Just—stop."

To Regulus's relief, his brother did as he asked—the churlish expression fell off his face, replaced with a kind of tired resignation. Perhaps he saw how weak the smaller boy still was, that it was not worth the over-excitement to antagonize him, now…or maybe it was simply that it was an old fight between them, commonplace and rather worn-out.

"What changed _your_ mind?" Sirius asked, after another interminable lull. His brother thought for a long time before answering.

"A lot of things," Regulus admitted, in a low voice. "It didn't take long for me to realize it was a mistake, that I…what he asked me to do was…"

He swallowed hard, and Sirius found himself patting his brother awkwardly on the arm. Regulus winced in pain and he withdrew the hand, apologetically.

"But you didn't think you could get out?" Sirius asked, gently. "And you thought—they'd do something to our—to them."

"Yes—" He gulped. "But then—after I saw what he'd done to Kreacher, when I was the one who gave him to the Dark Lord—"

"What did he do?"

"Poisoned him and left him for dead, in the cave—with the hundreds of Inferi—"

"The cave where he hid his Horcrux, right?" Sirius asked, voice even, eyes deadly serious. Regulus blanched and sputtered. "Don't look at me like that—it was obvious, if Dumbledore was that impressed it had to be something big."

"So you know, then?"

"Mother does, as well," Sirius said, casually; Regulus looked stricken at this revelation, but his brother continued, quite conversationally, "And since _we_ only know about them because I nicked that book from his study, I think it's safe to assume our father does, too. If he can recognize Slytherin's personal jewelry on sight, you think he'd be able to recognize a bit of Voldemort's _soul_."

"Keep your voice down," Regulus hissed, and he looked around, paranoid, as if it was likely they'd be overheard. Sirius laughed, in that careless way that his little brother had admired and resented in equal turns.

"No one can hear us, Reg," Sirius said, rubbing the top of his head. "And I'm not going to let them near you."

"As if you could stop them," Reggie grumbled, pushing off his hand. "You barely got away from them, yourself, last night—idiot."

"I'm not afraid of Evan Rosier and his mates," Sirius said, grinning. His brother's expression faltered.

"You ought to be—Evan's had it out for you for years—" Sirius snorted dismissively. "And Bella."

Sirius stilled in the way that reminded Regulus of a hunting dog.

"Has Bellatrix been talking about me?" he asked, in an ominously calm voice—though his eyes were glowing in that way that spoke of his love of the challenge. "What has she been saying?"

"N-nothing…"

"She wants to kill me herself, does she?" Sirius asked, with a blazing look, and Regulus flinched. "For being a filthy blood traitor, I'd imagine."

"I didn't—"

"And you _wonder,"_ Sirius said, cooly standing up. "Why I had to get away from them."

The brief moment of understanding between them—of peace—evaporated just as quickly as it had materialized. Regulus could see his elder brother settling comfortably back behind his defensive battlements, there would be no reasoning with him about their family—at least not for the present.

Sirius's eyes fell on the lamp next to the sofa and he smiled, caustically, and walked over to it.

"What's _this_ supposed to be?" he asked, picking it up and eyeing it with distaste. "A 'get well soon' present?"

"Kreacher brought it for me!" Regulus snapped, defensive. "So in case I woke up in the middle of the night I would have light to read by."

"Don't you have a wand?" Sirius said, dropping the lamp back on the table rather more roughly than was strictly necessary. "And anyway, I have lamps here—unless you're afraid _mummy_ will find out you were slumming it with the filthy Muggles—"

"Stop talking about her that way!" Reg shot back, hotly, just as the door opened and Remus walked back in with a large bag of pastries.

"I return with provisions!" He saw the identical mulish look on both brothers' faces and stopped. "Still fighting about your parents, then?"

"We were off the subject and talking about much more important things," Sirius informed him, wryly. "But Reg has brought us round again."

Remus walked over to Sirius's little brother, sitting up again, and handed him the bag of treats, which Regulus snatched out of his hands in a very Sirius-like way. He pulled a chocolate croissant out of it, and bit off a giant piece.

"Don't choke, now," Sirius cautioned, laughing, as Regulus gagged slightly.

"I am not a child and I don't appreciate being spoken to as such," Regulus said, with utmost dignity, wiping crumbs off his lips. Sirius gave him a wicked grin.

"Ooooh—tetchy, tetchy." He shot a sideways look at Remus. "Look at my brother, Moony—he's only been on our side for half a day and he's already giving me cheek."

Regulus shot his brother a sullen look and swallowed.

"I can't take you fighting with Mother every five minutes, that's all," he said, biting off another hunk of the flaky pastry. He ferreted around in the bag looking for more—Remus was suddenly very glad he'd gotten a wide selection. Black the Elder could pack away Quaffle-sized cherry currant tart under the right circumstances, and Remus guessed that—slighter though he may be—Black the Younger also had an insatiable appetite for sweets.

Sirius gave his younger brother an extremely obnoxious, superior look.

"Well—you needn't worry on that score. Whatever happens, rest assured last night was a one-time performance."

"What does _that_ mean?" Regulus said, testily. His brother offered him an answer by way of a bored shrug.

"Meaning I'll be steering clear of them," he said, matter-of-factly. Regulus flushed pink. "Look, I don't blame you for last night, you didn't have any control over Kreacher bringing them here—and of course I'll visit you, wherever Dumbledore thinks is safest—but you'll have to tell me when they're coming by—"

"So what, you don't have to see them?" Regulus asked, acidly. "Is that it?"

Remus thought it was fairly obvious that Sirius had upset his brother—and fairly obvious why—but Sirius was examining the embroidered sleeve of his robes with distaste and didn't seem to have noticed the barely suppressed rage in Regulus's voice.

"So they don't have to see _me_ ," he said, raising an eyebrow in the now trembling younger boy on the sofa. "Last night was an ugly reminder that I exist, so—"

"Shut up," his brother spat, angrily. Sirius dropped his sleeve in surprise. "I'm sick of you talking like…you are so…so…" Regulus struggled to come up with a word bad enough to describe his elder brother. "You are so _full of it_!"

Sirius stared at him for a full five seconds before he burst out laughing.

"Did you just say I was—'full of it'?" Sirius repeated, with undisguised delight, and his brother practically growled at him. "Be careful, Reg, that's a very common, vulgar sort of phrase—best not let _mother dearest_ hear you using it."

"I thought I told you not to talk about her—"

"Maybe I have rubbed off on you," Sirius said, thoughtfully, grinning. "Risking your neck, talking back—I reckon you're picking up my 'rebellious son' mantle—"

"How could I pick up something when you're still wearing it?" his brother shot back, furiously. The amused smile dropped from Sirius's face instantly.

"What are you talking about?"

"You! You and your stupid determination to provoke them all the time!"

"I'm not trying to 'provoke them'," Sirius said, voice rising. Remus had retreated to the corner of the room and was keeping very still and very quiet. "Will you listen to yourself—I'm not trying to do anything—I don't _care_ what they think." His mouth twisted in a humorless smile. "—And they certainly don't care about me—"

"You don't know a damn thing about what they feel or want," his brother snapped, in a cold rage. "You don't know _anything_!"

Sirius dropped his wand in shock.

"You've no idea what it was like when you left!" Regulus yelled, furiously. The chocolate seemed to have bolstered the younger Black brother's courage, because he continued on his tear with gusto. "And you never once thought about what it would be like for me, did you? Being left alone with them after you broke both their hearts—"

"Of course I did," said Sirius, but in a far quieter voice than his brother's. He was obviously in shock—Regulus had never yelled at him in his life. "I thought about it a lot—"

"But it didn't stop you!" Regulus snapped, now on the verge of tears.

"Look, I told you we should drop it because we'd only fall out over this," Sirius said, in a forced calm voice.

"I don't want to drop it!" Regulus balled his fists into his blankets. "I want you to admit—"

"—What, that I still care what they think and am chasing after their affection and approval like you?" Sirius said, curling his lip. "You'll be waiting a long time for that."

"You know what Father says?" Regulus said, narrowing his eyes in a way that was very reminiscent of their mother. " _He_ says you're just like her, and that's your trouble, that's why you always fight."

Sirius bent down to snatch the wand off the floor, his face an ugly shade of purple.

"We always fight because she's a bloody lunatic!"

"He says you've always acted out because you like the attention and don't know how to get it from her in any other way."

"That is the single most idiotic thing that man has ever said," Sirius snorted, derisively. "And I'm including the Christmas where he got drunk and made us listen to his treatise on proper bowtruckle breeding."

His brother didn't reply—only scowled fiercely up at his elder brother. Regulus was breathing hard, like he'd run a marathon. Remus thought that this tirade seemed to have taken everything out of him—and for someone who'd been through what he had, that meant a lot.

Sirius clearly saw it as well.

"…Well—" Sirius said, after a long moment where the two of them could only stare at one another. "I haven't had much in the way of 'attention' from them in the past three years—it's all been on you, hasn't it?"

Regulus didn't reply. His brioche bun lay abandoned on his lap.

"Tell me how much you've enjoyed it, Regulus."

His little brother's lip trembled, and he blinked away the tears.

"Reggie…" Sirius walked slowly back to the sofa and sat on the edge next to his brother, who was trying desperately to avoid looking him in the eye. "I'm sorry—I didn't mean to rile you up."

"I'm not…" He sniffed loudly. "…Riled."

"Sure," Sirius smiled. "Seems like you've been wanting to say all that to me for awhile, only, erm—being one of Lord Voldemort's top men probably prevented you."

"Shut up!" Regulus said, but his voice was muffled by the pillow he had buried his face in.

"Tell you what—" Sirius squeezed his shoulder and stood up. "How about Remus and I make you a cup of tea, eh? That always makes things better."

Face still buried in the pillow, Regulus nodded stiffly. Sirius glanced over at his friend and gestured towards the kitchen.

Remus followed him into the other room and shut the door behind him. There was an awkward moment where neither of them spoke, then Sirius blinked and turned to the cupboard, busying himself with rooting around for a mug.

"Sorry about—all that, Remus," he said, gruffly, as his friend watched him grope about for the dusty tin with tea bags in it. "I feel like after today I owe you and Lily a barrel of mead…putting up with this."

"It's really nothing," Remus said, honestly, filling up the kettle with his wand and tapping it. Sirius was not looking at him. "Nothing at all."

"You know what we've witnessed tonight, Moony, don't you?" Sirius turned around, a wry sort of detached smile on his face. "The direct result of eighteen years of mad pureblood indoctrination and repression. He's snapped. Putting in his letter of resignation with the Death Eaters over the family house elf, coming _here_ of all places, spouting off all that rubbish just now—this will be a great case study for St. Mungo's, mark my words."

Sirius leaned back casually on the counter and shot his friend an amused look that he did not return.

"That really what you think is going on?" Remus asked, mildly, pouring the water from the kettle into the mug.

"Of course! Can't you tell? Reg's brain was clearly broken by a combination of Inferi venom and social conditioning."

"If you say so," his friend replied, quietly. If Sirius had been in his Padfoot form, his ears would have immediately perked up, for he recognized that delicate inflection in Lupin's voice—he knew all too well what it meant.

His eyes narrowed in his friend's direction.

"Go on, then," Sirius said, as Remus crossed to the fridge and pulled out a carton of milk that had certainly expired. "Whatever it is that you're dying to say, just say it."

"It's just—" He gave Sirius a skeptical squint. "You really don't think there's even the _tiniest_ bit of truth in what your brother just said in there?"

Sirius stared at Remus as if he had just sprouted two heads.

"No, of course not!" he laughed, clearly waiting for a punchline that was not forthcoming.

Remus took one whiff of the milk and winced, waved his wand and vanished it.

"So your brother, who's known you his _entire life_ is just…completely off-base about everything?" Remus continued, now with just the right inflection of disbelief to really set his friend off.

"What—you mean all that rubbish about how I'm acting out for mummy's attention?" Sirius asked, his voice getting oddly higher in pitch. "I've never heard such bilge—my dad must really be going round the twist if he thinks—"

"It's perfectly alright if you don't know how you feel," Remus interrupted, abruptly. "Seeing them again."

"What are you—I know exactly how I feel—"

"Nobody would blame you—"

"—I feel disgust and annoyance, is what I feel—"

"—And there's nothing to be ashamed of."

"I'm not ashamed—what would I…" Sirius trailed off, the full implication of his friend's words hitting him like a Bludger to the face. "You actually _believe_ him, don't you?"

Lupin blinked up at him, wearily.

"You always _have_ been a bit weird about your mother, Sirius," Remus said, with the air of someone admitting an unpleasant truth reluctantly and under extreme duress.

"What do you—like when?" Sirius shot back, defensive hackles up. "When exactly have I been 'weird'?"

"Everyone is weird about their mum," Lupin said, very reasonably, stirring some sugar into Regulus's tea. "It's just—natural. Normal, really."

"No, if you're going to accuse me of that, you're going to give me an example, Moony."

"Fine!" Remus snapped, dropping the spoon on the counter with a clatter. "How about on your thirteenth birthday when you made me parse over a five sentence letter she sent you in the library word-by-word for four hours? You'd think we were doing bloody cryptography, the way you were obsessing over it!"

"Well—that was—" Sirius sputtered. "—I was _thirteen_!"

"And what about the New Year's Eve you got smashingly drunk and tried to convince me it would be a good idea to egg their house?" Remus asked, voice laden with heavy irony. "You know— _last year_?"

Sirius, four inches taller than Remus, suddenly looked rather small.

"But please, by all means, keep going on and on about how you don't care and nothing they do affects you in the slightest," he continued, in a clipped tone. "Your brother and I are over here in the corner called reality waiting for you to finish up."

Sirius was struck dumb by this, but Lupin only stared at him, maddeningly patient. After a long moment he shrugged again.

"…I still think that would've been a fun way to ring in 1979," he finally said, sulkily.

"I'm sure it would've," his friend agreed, placatingly. Sirius had shoved his hands into the pockets of his fancy-dress robes and looked all the more the brooding, Byronic wizard of the old school.

"What _else_ do you agree with my dear little brother on?" he asked, aggressively.

"Well…" Remus tilted his head, considering his next words carefully. "It's not so much what he said, but reading between the lines of what he said, you know?"

"No, I don't," Sirius replied, bluntly.

"He's had a bit of a hard time being your brother, Sirius," Remus said, glancing over at the door. "That was what was really fueling all that. I think he's felt like he's been in your shadow—"

"I've been out of the picture for three years!" Sirius snapped. "And before that they never stopped going on about what a better son he was—"

"Yes, but—you're you and he's…him." Sirius stared, uncomprehendingly, at Remus, who sighed. "Oh, come on, Sirius—you and James were the most popular boys at school, and Regulus is…very reserved, almost shy. I can't imagine growing up with you as his older brother was easy—"

"So he's got an excuse for becoming a Death Eater, does he?" Sirius snapped, irritably. "I was an awful elder brother and it's all my fault."

"I didn't say that," Remus replied, very seriously. "All I'm saying is that—you might ease up and just…try to understand things from his point of view. I know your parents were awful—" Remus said, quickly cutting off the protest he knew was coming. "—But maybe…try to see where he's coming from about them…and you."

Sirius looked at his friend with a mixture of resignation and mild pity.

"I can't talk about this with you anymore." He looked out the window. "Come to think of it, I can stand to be in this flat anymore. I'm staging a break-out."

Whether he had taken Remus's words to heart or not was difficult for his friend to say—he thought he caught a whiff of denial in the too-friendly way that Sirius clapped him on the shoulder. His friend picked up the now-tepid mug of tea and marched back out to the living room with a renewed sense of purpose. Remus, sighing heavily, followed him.

"You composed yourself, Reg?" Sirius asked, loudly, walking over to his brother—who, though red-eyed, was no longer buried in the pillows. Sirius handed him the tea, which he wordlessly took. "Look—"

He bent down next to his brother and smiled at him. Regulus looked up from the tea, vulnerable for a moment, before the shutters went up again.

"I meant what I said about not wanting to fight you, you know—about any of it." He squeezed his brother's shoulder. "I'm sure we will, but…what matters is what you've done. And…"

Something caught in Sirius's voice, and he continued, with forced gruffness:

"I know it doesn't mean as much from me—probably anything, really—compared to the two of _them_ , but I want you to know—" He pulled his brother toward him in a quick hug. "—That I'm really proud of you."

He released Reg so quickly his younger brother did not have time to hug him back; Regulus blinked up at him in surprise for a moment, staring in wonder at Sirius's smile—one of the first genuine ones he had seen in years directed at him.

"Of course it means something," he replied, quietly. When Sirius stood up again, he ruffled his brother's hair.

"Well, Remus—look after him for me."

Sirius, humming, walked over to the closet with a strut in his step and pulled out a traveling cloak. Remus and Regulus stared at him with identical expressions of disbelief.

"Wait a minute—where do you think _you're_ going?" Remus asked, incredulously.

"Didn't I tell you I was staging a break-out?"

"Dumbledore said—"

"Moony," Sirius interrupted him, in a bored voice. "We've been over this: plausible deniability. You don't tell me what Dumbledore told you, I don't know about it, everyone's happy."

"I never agreed to that!" Remus protested, sternly, and he actually marched in front of the door. "What if your parents come back? What am I supposed to do then?"

Sirius put a hand on his chin and mock-deliberated the question.

"Well, as everyone here seems to think they're so soft and cuddly—" Remus glared. "Relax. Have Regulus deal with them—or hide in the loo. That usually works."

"Even if Dumbledore hadn't said you weren't supposed to, would it really be a good idea?" Remus asked, crossing his arms. "I thought you had your face nearly cursed off by Rosier and Wilkes last night."

"I'm totally fine—" He gently slapped his face to illustrate the point—and staggered sideways slightly. Lupin tilted his head knowingly and Sirius scowled. "Look, Remus, I really need to blow off some steam. I'm going to go mad shut up in here—I promise I'll be back before Dumbledore even knows I'm gone."

He gave Remus the wheedling look he'd perfected when his friend had been made a prefect. It usually worked at getting Moony to let him have his way—the only downside being an occasional annoying lecture about 'responsibility' after the fact.

"…Fine," Lupin relented, stepping out of the way.

Sirius beamed, then looked back at his brother, who had fixed him with a sterner look than even Remus's.

"Mother said you weren't to go anywhere," he informed his brother, primly.

"Lucky for me she's not about then, isn't it?"

A loud CRACK cut through the air, and for the third time in eight hours, Sirius jumped straight up in shock. Remus, startled—though he showed more dignity—felt his eyebrows rise at the site of the small, dark and grubby-looking house-elf who had just appeared in front of Sirius's front door and was now leering up at him, a corked bottle of potion in one of his small, clawed hands.

"Merlin's _balls_ , will you stop Apparating into the flat with no warning?" Sirius said, staring down at the creature with a look of intense dislike. "You don't live here, you know."

"Kreacher goes where his mistress bids him," the elf informed him, matter-of-factly. "Mistress has sent him to watch over the young masters—"

"Oh, sure," Sirius replied, shoving his hands into the pockets of his cloak. "More likely she suspected we're getting along and sent you to spy."

"—And to make sure Master Sirius drinks his potion."

Sirius gaped down at him, visibly affronted—Remus could have laughed.

"Sirius," he said, squelching his smile. "Erm—who's this?"

"This unfortunate, Remus, is Kreacher—loyal house-elf to the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. Kreacher—" Sirius held out his hand in Remus's direction. "This is Remus Lupin, my friend. Don't be rude to him, or I'll turn your ears into radishes."

"Don't threaten him!" Regulus snapped, then he addressed the elf kindly. "Hullo, Kreacher. How are Mother and Father?"

"Master retired to his chambers to rest after his trying night," Kreacher shot Sirius a sideways look, indicating what he believed the source of his master's trials were. "Mistress is entertaining, which is why she sent Kreacher along with the potion that she said Master Sirius must drink."

"Fat chance. You think I'd let her dose me with sleeping draught again?" Sirius said, contemptuously. "Wait—hold a tic. Who exactly is it that came to call—who's she having tea with?"

The elf screwed up his face obstinately and didn't reply.

"Come on, Kreach, be a pal," he needled. "I promise not to turn your ears into radishes—just tell me who it is."

"Kreacher does not spill his mistress's secrets to ungrateful lawless sons," the elf informed him, giving him a shrewd look. "Who are only up to no good."

Sirius had long suspected that when he was born, his mother had cast a spell on him so that whenever he so much as _thought_ something she wouldn't approve of, Kreacher would appear and employ every weapon in his vicious little arsenal to prevent it. He remembered, with a jolt, what she had said the night before about the house-elf—that he 'let him see weakness'—and he then did an exceedingly rare thing.

He took her advice.

"Kreacher," Sirius commanded, imperiously. "I order you to tell me who came to call on my mother this morning."

The elf merely glared at him.

"Should that have worked?" Remus looked round at Regulus, who was rolling his eyes skyward at his brother's hostile face-off with the family servant.

"He's supposed to follow the orders of everyone in the family—"

"—But my mother ordered him not to follow mine about eight years ago, and he's never forgotten, the little toerag," Sirius huffed. "You ask him, Reg. _Please_."

"Kreacher—come here, please." The elf immediately went up to the young charge he actually liked, docilely. "Now, you can tell us who Mother is seeing. It's not a secret—we're just curious, that's all."

"Mistress is…" Kreacher shot Sirius a suspicious look, but continued, grudgingly. "Mistress is having tea with…Mistress Druella and Miss Cissy."

Sirius snapped his fingers.

"Aunt Dru and Narcissa!" Sirius wrinkled his nose in distaste, but his eyes glinted with deviance which the elf spotted instantly. "Well, we could do worse. They'll certainly keep her busy for awhile, gives me time. I'll just leave you all to it, then—"

He reached for the door handle and immediately withdrew it, cursing.

"Shit," He looked around at the elf, angrily, shaking his now burned hand. "You did that, didn't you?"

"Kreacher was ordered to make sure Master Sirius took his potion, lest his brains become addled, though Kreacher is sure they must already be—"

"I'll addle _your_ brains if you don't take that spell off the door!"

"Sirius, just drink the potion she's made you and stop acting like an infant," Regulus said, irritably. "The Cycticero curse needs to be treated every six hours, you're overdue as it is."

Sirius glared at the elf.

"Alright…I'll drink it. If—" He paused, dramatically. "And only _if_ —you don't try to use any of your magic to stop me leaving after I do, elf. Deal?"

"Kreacher does not think Mistress would like Master Sirius to wander off—"

"But she didn't order you to stop me, did she?" Sirius pointed out. "Only to drink the potion. You're not doing anything wrong—you're doing right by her, in fact."

"Stop trying to manipulate him!" Regulus protested, hotly. Sirius waved him off, dismissively.

"It's not manipulating, it's bargaining, little brother—and it's a perfectly valid way to get what you need in a pinch." He gave the house-elf a hard look. "How about it, Kreacher?"

Remus stepped forward—but with caution, as he had little experience with house-elves, and this one seemed to have written him off as being of low origin the moment Sirius introduced him as his friend.

"Come on Sirius—what's so urgent, anyway?" Sirius shot his friend an annoyed look.

"I need to see a man about a…matter," he said, unhelpfully. He surreptitiously gestured with a finger for Remus to come over, and when he did he pulled him into a corner, out of earshot of the house-elf and Regulus.

"Where are you going, really?" Remus asked, in a low voice. Sirius looked around with exaggerated paranoia, as if he expected Kreacher to pop up next to them any moment.

"To…Dorset," Sirius admitted, reluctantly. His friend let out a long-suffering sigh. He should have known.

"Can't seeing James wait?"

"No, it can't!" Sirius muttered, out of the corner of his mouth. He looked mildly embarrassed at Remus's intense stare, and said, in a whisper so quiet Moony had to strain to hear it. "Okay, fine—I need to get my…civvies, savvy?"

"You're going to Godric's Hollow to _get a change of clothes_?" Remus said, incredulously.

Sirius shushed him, but it was too late—Regulus and Kreacher had already heard. Sirius's younger brother's frown became, if possible, even more priggish, and the elf was fixing him with a look of intense disapproval.

"Well, I can't go about in these, can I?" He plucked at the heavy sleeves of the fur-trimmed cloak. Regulus cleared his throat delicately, and they both turned in his direction.

"Can't you resist thumbing your nose at mother for even one morning?"

"No, I can't," Sirius said, churlishly. Remus rubbed his forehead and sighed. "It's the principle of the thing. I can't let her win."

"It's not about winning—"

"With her it's _always_ about winning!" Sirius snapped. "Now, do we have a deal, Kreacher?"

The elf weighed the matter with careful consideration. Sirius tapped his foot on the floor to emphasize his impatience, to which the elf only dithered more, muttering unintelligible things to himself.

"Kreacher—" he wheezed, at last. "Kreacher agrees, but only if Master Sirius comes back after an hour, as that is when the mistress should be coming back. Otherwise—" Kreacher gave him a malevolent look. "Kreacher will come and drag Master Sirius back to his mistress by his ears."

"I'd like to see you try—" Remus kicked him. "Fine, agreed. An hour. Give us that potion, then."

Kreacher handed him up the flask, which Sirius downed in one with the gusto.

"Disgusting," he remarked, as he choked it down. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve uncouthly. "Well—I've been a good little boy, haven't I? So you can lift the enchantment and I'll be on my merry way."

Kreacher tilted his head, as if he was reconsidering the entire thing, but the hostile glare from the young master was too much, and Remus watched him grudgingly nod toward the door. Its handle glowed; Sirius put his hand on it experimentally.

"Wait, Sirius—" His friend turned back around. "How're you getting there?"

Sirius looked at him askance.

"How do you think?" He mimed revving handlebars.

"You're not planning on riding your—"

"—Do _not_ mention it by name in mixed company, Moony," Sirius interrupted, giving Kreacher a dark look and jabbing a thumb in his direction. "Code word only. Let's call it…Elvira."

Remus's mouth twitched at Sirius's choice of nickname for his infamous flying motorcycle.

"Alright…you're not planning on riding 'Elvira', are you? That's nearly a hundred miles."

"But it will be glorious!"

"I know exactly what you're talking about," Regulus interrupted them, giving Sirius a sullen look. "I'm not stupid. _They_ all know about it, too. And anyway, who else but you would be so stupid as to enchant one of those things?"

"You're just jealous." Sirius grinned. "Be a good boy and maybe one day I'll take you on it for a spin."

Regulus looked revolted at the mere suggestion.

"Be careful," his little brother warned, voice getting waspish. "Or I'll tell Mother and Father—"

"Mind you don't! No one likes a tattle, Reg," Sirius cut him off, flatly. He looked between his little brother and his second best mate, each about annoying as the other right now, and sighed in a conciliatory fashion. "Fine, Moony—I'll apparate this time, if it'll make you happy."

"What will make me happy is if you stay _here_!"

But Sirius had already flung open the door.

"Alas, life is full of disappointments. I'll be back in an hour!" He called over his shoulder, cheerily, over the protests of all three of the flat's inhabitants—Kreacher's mutterings about filth and shame were impossible to miss. "Don't do anything stupid while I'm away."

"As if that's likely," Remus muttered, weakly, when the door slammed. He looked back at Regulus on the sofa—who was staring at him with obvious, if mild, dislike—and the elf now at his side. As far as Kreacher's look went, Remus might've been dung on his shoe—or an creature himself—

Perhaps the elf recognized him for what he was, Remus thought, heart dropping.

In the faint distance was a sound suspiciously like that of a motorbike engine.

Remus collapsed on the moldering armchair, not for the first time struck by how lucky Sirius was to have been born so damn charming, because sometimes—and right now definitely qualified—he could be a right pain in the arse.

* * *

 _Thank you all so much for your lovely reviews. This story is already finished and I'm working on the sequel. I hope you'll continue to enjoy (and be pleasantly surprised by where it's going.)_


	3. Part Three

_"_ _Master Regulus was very worried, very worried," croaked Kreacher. "Master Regulus told Kreacher to stay hidden and not to leave the house. And then . . . it was a little while later . . . Master Regulus came to find Kreacher in his cupboard one night, and Master Regulus was strange, not as he usually was, disturbed in his mind, Kreacher could tell . . . and he asked Kreacher to take him to the cave, the cave where Kreacher had gone with the Dark Lord. . . ."_

 _-J.K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows_

 **PART THREE**

When Sirius strode into the cottage twenty minutes later, pale December sunlight was streaming through the windows. The sun flooded the sitting room with a cheeriness which stood in direct contrast to his London flat. The moment he had begun his descent into Godric's Hollow and caught sight of the familiar thatched-roofed house, he had felt his mood lift.

He was going to see the one person in his life he had _never_ been sorry to see.

"Prongs—Oi!" Sirius called, pulling off his cloak and smiling at the box of Christmas ornaments Lily had pulled out of the attic the day before. "James—you here?"

"You're really making me feel underdressed, Padfoot."

Sirius whirled his head around and locked eyes with a grinning man at the top of the stairs. He was tall, and one hand ruffled a head of impossibly untidy black hair. The hazel eyes behind the pair of wire-rimmed glasses were bright and alert, and he was looking down at Sirius with undisguised pleasure.

His face split into an identical grin.

"Prongs, you shitehead, get down here!" he ordered—to which James Potter merely grinned wider.

"What're you doing in my house, then? I don't recall inviting you."

"If you don't want visitors, Potter," Sirius jerked his head back towards the entrance. "Maybe try locking the door."

"If I did _that_ , Black, you'd just break the window."

Still wearing a smile as wide as his face, Sirius's best friend vaulted down the stairs in three bounds and wrapped his arms affectionately around him in what they would describe, if pressed, as a very manly and restrained hug.

"Tell me some good news," Sirius said into James's shoulder.

"You're going to wake up my wife, how's that for a start?" James laughed, pulling back from Sirius and giving him a critical look. "Merlin, your face has looked better."

"And yet, still handsomer than yours." James slapped his cheek affectionately, his friend elbowed him in return. The two of them walked into the kitchen, and while Sirius threw himself down at the table, James crossed over to the stove to make them a pick-me-up. "Where've you been all night, anyway?"

"Not far—Wiltshire," his friend said, summoning the coffee pot from the sideboard. "Dumbledore had me doing a stakeout."

"You could've owled," Sirius replied, crossly, tossing his cloak onto James and Lily's floor. "I wondered where you got to."

James scoffed loudly at being worried over by Sirius Bloody Black, of all people.

"There was nothing to owl you about. It was all quiet, very boring—" James looked over his shoulder, his expression turning serious. "Anyway, from what I hear, _I_ was the least of your concerns last night. _Five_ Death Eaters in Hogsmeade, mate? That's mad."

"If you'd been there I'd have come out better," Sirius admitted, with a rueful shrug. "But I did alright for myself."

"Barely making it out alive your idea of 'alright', now?" his friend replied, sarcastically.

As he was lighting a fire under the coffee pot, Sirius's couldn't see James's face—but he recognized that tone of voice well enough.

"Merlin, you too? I was _fine,_ " he sniffed, indignantly. "You're not going full Moony on me, are you?"

James waved his wand above his head in protest.

"Of course not! You gave Lily a turn, that's all I'm saying," he answered, quickly, summoning a cup out of the cupboard with another flick of his wand. Sirius's mouth twitched. He could hear all the familiar tells that suggested James's _wife_ had not been the most worried Potter in this house this morning, and he felt an overwhelming surge of affection for his friend.

"Gave _Lily_ a turn, did I?" He gripped his heart and let out an exaggerated sigh. "Marriage has made you such a soft touch, Prongs."

His friend's response to this accusation was to fling a balled-up dishtowel at his head, but the rebuke did not lessen Sirius's amusement at James's expense.

"Being best friends with a reckless _wanker_ hasn't helped," James muttered, over Sirius's laugh.

"You hypocrite!" Sirius grinned. "You're just as reckless. You'd have done the same thing in my shoes."

"Maybe," James admitted, grudgingly—and Sirius could hear the reluctant smile in his voice. "Of course, unlike you, I don't take insane risks when I'm dueling—"

"No risk, no reward, Prongs," Sirius informed him, in a sing-song voice. "I can't help it if I'm more daring than you—"

"Yes, you can!" James turned on his heel, a mug of steaming coffee in his hand. He was attempting a stern glare, but he couldn't pull it off well—for the look was grappling with a mischievous smile that came far more naturally. "I'm not _always_ going to be there to bail you out when you get in trouble."

Sirius dismissed him with a single haughty toss of his head. James walked over to the table and held out the coffee mug, but Sirius tilted back in the chair and pretended not to notice it.

"Please—like I need you to," Sirius spoke to the ceiling, in a bored voice, so he missed the glare. "I'm still standing, aren't I?"

"Thanks to your mum patching you up," The grin fell off of Sirius's face, and the chair fell back to the floor with a clunk. "Is it true she put you to bed? As in—actually _tucked you in_?"

"Your wife has a fat mouth, Prongs," Sirius said, snatching the coffee and slurping down a scalding gulp. He choked, and James slapped him on the back, laughing uproariously.

"My wife, I'll have you know, is a living saint," he said, dropping into the chair next to his friend. "And I won't hear a word against her."

James stretched out his long legs—which Sirius promptly kicked under the table.

"You've been _unbearable_ since you defected to Team Evans, you know that, right?"

"I know you're jealous, but there's plenty of me for one and all."

"That's exactly the sort of thing I'm talking about!" Sirius grumbled, drinking from the cup of coffee, now more slowly.

"Speaking of defection—" James said, swiping Sirius's mug and taking a long swig himself. "It's true about your brother, too?"

His friend's expression shifted, and James watched Sirius tap his fingers on the top of the kitchen table.

"Yeah…he was in a bad way last night. Half-dead, practically. Little Regulus…" Sirius furrowed his brow, deep in thought. "Never would've thought he had it in him."

"And Dumbledore reckons what he's done is—big?"

"Huge." Sirius leaned forward in his chair. "It's—we're talking…change the course of the war, big."

James's eyebrows went up, and he slowly lowered the cup to the table.

"Wow," was all he could say. "And, erm…" James suddenly looked awkward. "How was seeing _them_ again?"

"You know, that's the least interesting part of all this," Sirius said, coldly, laying his hands flat on the tabletop. "And it's the only thing anyone seems to want to ask me about." His expression darkened, and he sighed. "It was—exactly what you'd expect, Prongs. It's not as though they've changed much in the past three years—and nor have I."

Sirius spoke in a forced and flat voice, and he was no longer smiling or looking James in the eye. His friend looked for moment as though he wanted to say something more, but he thought better of it, and instead cleared his throat and looked around the room, as if searching for a subject change.

He quickly found one.

"What's the deal with the dress togs?" Sirius looked down at the robes he had nearly forgotten he was wearing and grimaced. "You looking for a cravat to match?"

"Shut up—that's the reason I'm here." Sirius stood up and turned his head in the direction of the stairs. "I need to temporarily requisition some Muggle clothes—jeans. I might've left some here…I can't remember. Yours'll do if I haven't any of my own."

James's face twisted in confusion.

" _What_?" Sirius had already started walking briskly up the stairs. "Oi—Lily's sleeping, Padfoot, you can't—"

His protests went unnoticed, and James had to rush up the stairs after his best mate, who banged on the bedroom door only twice in perfunctory warning before walking straight in.

"You decent, Lily?" Sirius bellowed in greeting. A face-first lump on the bed groaned in response. He pulled the tatty dressing gown off the hook on the door and flung it in the lump's direction. "Here, cover yourself. I don't need to see you in your knickers."

He crossed to the dresser and unceremoniously began to rummage through the drawers. James appeared in the doorway, just in time for his wife to sleepily raise her head and fix him with a death glare.

"James—what in the name of all that is holy and good is your _stupid_ best mate doing in our bedroom?"

"I thought I was your best mate, too," Sirius, remarked, casually, as he held up two different pairs of jeans. "Which of these suits me better, d'you think?"

Lily sat up in bed and flung a pillow at him—Sirius ducked and laughed.

"Hey—I had a rough night, too!" he said, stuffing the acid-washed pair back in the drawer in favor of the darker of the two. "How're you feeling, Lils?"

She groaned and flopped back on her pillow, pulling the robe half over herself to conceal her bare legs. James went to sit down next to her. He kissed his wife's forehead affectionately, which seemed to placate her somewhat. Lily smiled sleepily and inched towards him on the bed.

"Awful. I just got back from retching over the toilet."

"Ooh. Yes, well—sorry about that." Sirius nodded over his shoulder in sympathy and resumed pulling t-shirts out of James's dresser. "Meeting my mother _does_ have that effect on people."

"It's not because of her, you dolt—" Lily bolted upright in bed, suddenly wide-awake. "Sirius—what're you _doing_ here? Dumbledore didn't want anyone to leave the flat—did you just leave your brother there?" She took in his appearance and squinted. "And what are you _wearing_?"

"That's what I've been trying to figure out," James added, pulling Lily into the crook of his arm.

Their friend, single-minded in pursuit of suitable clothing, ignored their questions. When he'd found a shirt to his liking, Sirius flung the robes over his head and dropped them, half-naked, on the floor of Lily and James's bedroom. Husband and wife exchanged looks—he amused, she incredulous—and watched as he pulled on James's slightly too-short jeans and a t-shirt over his head.

"That's much better," he proclaimed, admiring himself in the mirror. Sirius winked at James through it. "I feel human again."

James's eyes darted down to the front of the tee Sirius had pilfered and he scowled.

"Wait—you can't steal my Order of the Phoenix shirt!" he protested, getting up off the bed. "You have your own, Padfoot—what gives?"

"I _did_ have my own—until about four hours ago," Sirius informed him, sleekly fixing his already perfect hair in the mirror. "A madwoman tore through my dresser and removed all my Muggle togs."

"You don't mean—" James squinted his eyes in Sirius's direction. "Your _mum_ took it?"

"Along with everything else—including my leather jacket," Sirius muttered, darkly. "She's such a miserable, spiteful hag—"

"That's not a very nice thing to say," Lily interrupted him, cooly. Sirius shrugged his shoulders and sniffed.

"Well—no. That's the point, really." He walked over to the bed and gave Lily a friendly kiss on the cheek, which mollified her. He glanced down at her stomach and back up at her face—Lily was rubbing the sleep from her eyes. "And how's the wee Pronglet this morning?"

"Besides giving mummy an awful time of it, you mean?" Lily said, eyes glowing with delight. "Wonderful. What about you, Padfoot? How do you feel? Your face and arm look much better."

"Still sore as hell, but I'll live." He flopped backwards on the bed and stared up at the two of them. The Potters wore identical looks of bemusement, he smiled at the pair of them. "You've no idea what a relief it is to be here with you rather than _there_ with _them_. I don't know how I'm going to muster the strength to go back."

"You'll manage," Lily laughed, patting him on the head. "Were those robes your father's, by chance?"

"What tipped you off?" Sirius said, sarcastically. She giggled and James pulled her closer. "God, Lily…I don't even know what to say—how long were you in there with them before I showed up?"

"Not long—a minute, maybe." He stared up at the ceiling in a dazed way, as if the full impact of the past 8 hours was only now hitting him. He suddenly felt very tired…he wanted to turn into Padfoot, curl up at the end of this bed and sleep for about a week. "It was fine—all they cared about was Regulus, really. They barely said two words to me."

"I can think of two words I'd like to say to _them_ ," Sirius mumbled, half under his breath. He stretched out on the bed like an over-sized cat. "Lord, I'm knackered. Regulus went off his gourd a little while ago, had a total conniption in front of Remus—I feel like it's aged me prematurely."

Husband and wife exchanged looks.

"What did he say?"

"Oh—" Sirius yawned and waved his hand, dismissive. "Just a lot of rubbish about me and our parents and him…ask Remus. Or don't," he added, irritably. "As Moony has a lot of rubbishy opinions on the matter, too. Between Reg this morning and _her_ last night, I don't think I can take much more of this."

Lily gave James another knowing look that their friend missed, who happily continued rambling on, barely aware if they were paying attention or not.

"At least I don't have to worry about _him_ …one thing I'll say for my father, he wouldn't be caught _dead_ making a family scene. I don't think that man has felt an emotion other than contempt since the night Regulus was conceived—" He sniggered juvenilely. "—And maybe not even _then_."

"What happened with your mother, Sirius?" Lily asked, in a sweet, trying-not-to-pry voice. Sirius rolled over on his side and looked at her, brow furrowed.

"Well, we didn't exactly…have it out. I mean, we did, we argued about Regulus, and me running off came up but—" He frowned. "It was just odd, what she wanted to talk about when we were shut up in there."

"Like…?"

"Well, like _you_ for one!" He pointed at Lily, who looked confused and surprised in equal measures. "She actually asked if you were my girlfriend—ugh." He gave James a conciliatory wave. "No offense, Prongs."

James mock-glared and attempted to shove him off the bed, but Sirius only swatted the hand away. His wife frowned.

"Why is that odd?" Lily asked, perturbed. "Besides the fact that I'm out of your league, of course."

"Because…well, she saw your wedding ring, so it wasn't even girlfriend, she actually thought you might be my _wife_." Sirius flopped back down, snickering at the idea. "And then—get this, we had a debate about the value of marriage—as an institution. It was bonkers."

"Sounds lively," Lily smiled at James—who was gazing at his best friend with a look of intense puzzlement. "But I don't see what's so strange—"

"It was like she was interested, Lily—that's the odd part. Like she actually _cares_ about things I do."

"Of course she cares about the things you do!" Lily laughed. "Sirius, it's been three years since she's seen you, it's only natural she'd be curious."

Sirius sat up, very still, and fixed Lily with a superior look.

"Evans—with all due respect, you're a bit…out of your depth," Sirius said, very slowly. Lily blinked at him. James had tensed at her side. "You don't really know what you're talking about, I mean."

"This isn't advanced alchemy, Sirius," she said, a definite coolness in her voice. James was looking warily between them. Sirius and Lily did not fight often, but when they did, it tended to be incendiary. "It's your mum."

" _My_ family does not operate like _normal_ families."

"All I said was that it's not odd that your mother cares what you've been doing," Lily insisted. "What is so strange about that?"

Lily rounded on her husband, looking for support. James's wariness had increased dramatically, and he eyed Sirius like one would a ticking bomb about to go off.

"Lily…she's not _allowed_ to care about me anymore. It's not permitted. When a person in the Black family breaks the very narrow set of rules that govern it—that's it. They're out. No more."

"But—"

"I'll give you an example. My middle cousin, Andromeda—she's the daughter and sister of the women my mother's currently drinking tea with," Sirius paused just long enough to let his distaste for the people in question show before he continued. "—She met Ted Tonks, a Muggleborn, just like you, at Hogwarts. Wanted to get married. But marriage to Muggleborns isn't suitable for Blacks, you see? It isn't _done._ "

There was a fierceness in his voice—a righteous anger that Lily was unused to.

"What…what happened?" she asked, pale under her freckles.

"Andromeda wasn't going to take 'no' for an answer, so she ran off—eloped at just eighteen. That was nearly ten years ago. She has a daughter now, but her parents and sisters have never met her. _They_ pretend like she doesn't exist—and _my mother_ personally removed her from the tapestry of the family tree—blasted her off with her wand one night."

Sirius mimed the motion, bitterly, and collapsed back on the bed. If he had looked tired before, he now seemed positively exhausted. Lily and James both stared at him for a while.

"That's—awful," Lily said, quietly, at last.

"Isn't it?" Sirius said, gloomily, rolling over on his back to stare at the ceiling again. "She wasn't the first, either. It's a typical story in my family. I expect I've been removed from the tree, too…I haven't asked."

He wasn't looking at either of them, but he could feel Lily's bright green eyes watching him closely.

"I'm so sorry," Lily said, patting him on the shoulder. "I didn't know."

"Yeah, well—there's a reason I got out when I did," Sirius said, tiredly. "And in a way—there is something clean about it—final. Once you're out, you're free. The day I left home was the happiest of my life—"

"That's…not how I remember it, Padfoot," James interrupted, quietly. "At all."

Sirius bolted up again.

"I can't believe this," he said, staring at James incredulously. "First Remus, then Lily, now _you_ —"

"All he's saying— _I'm_ saying—is that these things are never clean or completely black and white, Sirius!" Lily pointed out, her exasperation back in full force. "People are complicated—and they change."

"They don't in _my_ family."

"Well, what about your brother?" she asked, pulling her bathrobe on. She got out of bed and marched over to the discarded pile of robes he'd left on the floor. "After everything we saw and heard last night—"

Lily picked them up and started to fold them by hand—a sure sign she was angry.

"That is completely different, Lily—" Sirius protested—and she spun around and shoved his father's neatly folded robes in his arms.

"Why? _Why_ is it completely different?"

"Because Regulus is not like _them_!" he said, standing up. James remained seated on the bed, looking between his wife and best friend, unusually quiet—though neither had noticed. "He actually has a heart, for one—"

"Your parents aren't heartless," Lily said, fiercely. "Not at all."

Sirius tossed the robes back on the floor and rounded on her, angrily.

"I think I know them a _bit_ better than you do, Lily."

"Yeah, well," Lily waved her wand over the trousers and shirts he'd left hanging out of the drawers, and they tucked themselves back into the dresser. "I walked in on your mum crying into your dad's shoulder by your bed last night, so forgive me for being skeptical."

Sirius stared at her for a full fifteen seconds in utter, punch-drunk shock.

"Your wife, James—has gone completely stark-raving _mad,_ " he said, letting out a mildly hysterical giggle. "She's off her bleeding rocker—"

"I'm not," Lily replied, unfazed by his blatant aspersions against her sanity. Sirius looked to his other friend for support, and found Prongs remarkably unhelpful—he was actually looking at Lily, almost like _she_ was the sane one. "I know _exactly_ what I saw."

"There is no way that woman cried over me," he said, still laughing—a laugh that was forced and devoid of humor. "No _fucking_ way—"

Lily shrugged—an 'if you say so' look that was very Remus.

"She tried to hide it, but she was wiping her eyes with your dad's handkerchief, I saw her—" She forcibly shoved the dresser drawers shut again. "She and your father were sort of hugging on the bed, too—"

"You're making all this up," Sirius said, color actually draining from his face. "All of it. A hallucination—maybe the whole past eight hours have been a mass hallucination—"

"Oh, grow up, Sirius!" Lily snapped, spinning on her socked heel. "Why should any of this surprise you? Your parents are human beings with flesh and blood—they can feel like anyone else. Last night was an awful shock for them both—I expect she was crying about more than _you_ , you know, with the strain—"

"My mother's never cried in her life," Sirius said, hotly. "She's got an iron stone where her heart should be."

Mrs. Potter's face flushed red. It had the effect of making her look like a very pretty, very angry tomato.

"I'm sure it's comforting for you to think of her that way!" Lily said, acerbically. She took a moment to compose herself, breathing in slowly and exhaling before she spoke again.

"Look—I'm not saying I thought she was a joy, she seems like a bit of a nightmare, really—and frankly—" Lily shooed James off the bed and began making it. "—After meeting her, I think I finally understand why you're so effing _bizarre_ when it comes to women—"

"What does _that_ mean?" he yelped.

"—The point _is_ ," she ploughed over him and fluffed up the pillows on the bed. "That when your mother tended to your injuries last night, and brewed a potion for you, and put you to bed, and sat at your bedside…it didn't seem like she cared much whether you're on a tapestry in her house or not. That's all."

Sirius blinked slowly at her—James, too, stared. Improbably, Lily's bright green eyes had welled up with tears. She realized and immediately turned an even brighter crimson. Mrs. Potter turned her head away from them both, clearly embarrassed.

"Don't say it's because I'm pregnant—either of you!" she said, wiping them away, as both men started to smile. "Maybe I _am_ feeling a bit sympathetic right now to mothers, but that doesn't mean I'm wrong—"

"Sure," Sirius said, laughing with something like relief. "Sure, Lily, whatever you—"

"And another thing!" she snapped, once she'd mopped her face up with one of James's stray socks. "About your mother, I mean—whoever cursed your face last night better hope she doesn't find out it was them. When she realized what it was they'd done to you, that woman looked ready to ring a chicken's neck with her bare hands."

Neither man replied to this vivid, visceral description—Sirius, naturally, could hardly argue with it. He was still smiling—though it was somehow more like a grimace. Lily smoothed her hair and robe and marched toward the door, primly.

"Now if you'll excuse me—" She turned back around to face them with utmost dignity. "I have to go commune with the toilet."

She stalked out of the room.

Sirius looked at James, his mouth twitched, and he burst out laughing. James laughed as well—a tad uneasily.

"Barking…" He walked over to his friend, still standing by the now perfectly made bed, and clapped him heartily on the shoulder. "Completely mad, eh, Prongs? Hate to blame your unborn child, but it's _clearly_ the hormones…"

"Erm—yeah, I s'pose…" James said, shoving his hands in his pockets.

"Still love her, of course—" Sirius beamed at the door, fondly. "A good bird. The best, in fact—you did well getting her. Imagine though…" He turned back around to James, eyes glassy with exhaustion. "—My mother…crying over my bedside. How blinking insane does that sound?"

"Very mad," James agreed, conciliatory.

" _My mother_. My mother…" Sirius repeated this mantra several times, half to himself, half like an incantation meant to ward off something. He shook his head like a dog trying to get water out of his ears and glanced up at the clock on the wall. "Damn—not much time left. Listen, Prongs—"

Sirius looked in James's eyes and fixed him with the smile he reserved only for his best friend, and only when asking for something very important—a favor on the level that the Marauders' Code of Friendship Law had to be invoked.

"—I've got to get back. I think if we hurry we can just make it under on my bike. I know you've probably had even less sleep than me, but I was wondering…" His smile turned rather sheepish. "—Look, how do you fancy coming with me to face the—music, so to speak? I could really use the backup, 'specially if a duel breaks out. I'll let you be my second—" He punched James on the arm. "—And I'll even let you ride pillion."

Very rare were the occasions in which Sirius felt awkwardness about asking a favor from James. It was clear that Sirius saw accompanying him to his London apartment and being there when he saw his parents again as a large ask, and it was only Prongs' deep and abiding esteem for him that would convince him to go.

James's face fell.

"Mate—you know I want to. I mean, I would—" Sirius's own smile drooped. "Only…Dumbledore doesn't think it's a very good idea."

Sirius tilted his head, looking more like a confused dog than ever.

"Dumbledore…" He repeated, slowly. "Dumbledore—'doesn't think it's a good idea'?" James nodded. "Sorry—when _exactly_ did you get a chance to consult with Dumbledore about this, seeing as I just asked you about…oh, five seconds ago."

His voice took on a brittle quality.

"It wasn't me, it was Lily. He told her…" James swallowed. "That he thinks I should probably steer clear of your parents for the time being."

"I don't really see how it's any of his business who I invite into my flat," Sirius said, cooly. "But beyond that— _why_?"

"Well—you know," James said, adjusting his glasses, a bit fidgety. "They do kind of hate me, Sirius."

"So?" Sirius let out a barking laugh. "They hate me, too—and he shut me up with them! There's about five people in London they _don't_ hate."

"Dumbledore doesn't want to piss them off," James replied, flatly. "And he reckons I would."

Sirius took in this information with carefully cultivated skepticism.

"And he thinks _I_ wouldn't?" Sirius asked, incredulously—then he narrowed his eyes in suspicion at James, who was not sharing in what he thought was, frankly, a quite brilliant joke. "—What _else_ did he say to Lily?"

"The impression I got was—" James hesitated, knowing full well how his best mate would take this news, and why Dumbledore had left him to deliver it. "—That he wants their cooperation going forward, and he's considering a couple…avenues."

Sirius blinked hard.

"I'm sorry—are you saying…" He rubbed at his unshaven face. "That Dumbledore thinks he's going to _play ball_ with my parents?"

James fiddled with the hair at the back of his head, awkwardly. He found himself incapable of showing Sirius the solidarity he so clearly craved—someone to laugh at the sheer absurdity of this farce of an idea, and he did not enjoy disappointing his friend, as a rule.

"That's the general idea," James finally said, exhausted. Sirius let out a low whistle of disbelief.

"That man's even more off his rocker than your wife," Sirius said, in mild awe at the apparent insanity of Dumbledore. "My parents, James. My parents working with _us_ —Mr. and Mrs. _Toujours Pur_. It's a bad joke—"

"I mean…Sirius," James pleaded, tiredly. "You had to have realized that something like this would—with your brother doing what he did—what other options does the Order _have_ but to try to get them to cooperate?"

"I can think of plenty!" Sirius said, derisively. "Most of them involve tying anchors to the legs of the parties in question and pitching them into the sea, of course—"

James didn't laugh.

"Dumbledore thought you'd take it this way," he admitted, in a quiet voice. Sirius smarted at that, and his eyes flashed uncannily like his mother's.

"Oh? Did he?" Padfoot said, raising his hackles in a manner not unlike a growling dog. "And when did _that_ come up?"

"He told Lily that she and I were to convince you," James answered, truthfully. "And you wouldn't want to do it."

"Do…" The horrible reality of what James was suggesting sunk in at a glacial pace. "…What does he…" It really was awful for his friend, like watching the Titanic hit the iceberg under the influence of a badly done freezing charm. "He can't possibly…think that I would—that _they would_ —"

"Padfoot—"

"That's fucking moronic," Sirius said, face twisted in anger. "Tell me you think that's moronic, Prongs. That you agree with me. Tell me—" He gripped the end of Lily and James's bedpost so hard that he bent it. "—That you're on _my side_ , here."

The immediate and fervent 'yes' that Sirius had expected did not come. He let go of the disfigured bedpost like it had burned him, as the doorknob Kreacher cursed had.

"I'm always on your side, Sirius," James told him, calmly. "You know that."

He could tell that James was hurt by his unspoken accusation of disloyalty and was trying not to let it show, and that only made Sirius more furious.

"Do I?" he shot back, coldly. "It doesn't seem so obvious to _me_. You're not showing many signs of it now."

"At least hear Dumbledore out," James said, more forcefully. He had squared his shoulders and had the same look of determination that had always proceeded him taking a stand. "Find out what he has in mind before you have a _fit_ over it—"

"I am not having a fit!" Sirius said, his voice rising in fury—at who, he couldn't even tell himself. "Why are you going along with this, like it's a good idea?"

"All I've done is tell you what I think," James said, calmly. Sirius must've found this answer unsatisfactory, for he jabbed a finger at his friend's chest, an unusually aggressive move.

"No, you've told me what _your wife_ thinks."

"Well, maybe I agree with Lily!" James shot back, losing his own temper. Sirius "I know your parents really did a number on you, Sirius, but you're making all this about _you_ instead of the Order."

Sirius, white-faced, stumbled backwards away from his friend. It was as if James had punched him in the stomach—he couldn't breath properly for a second.

"Where the hell do you get off, talking to me like that?" Sirius hissed, balling his hands into fists. "For God's sake, you're supposed to be my _best friend_."

"Which means I have to tell you the _truth_ , Sirius," James snapped, bluntly. "Not just what you want to hear!"

The words—sharp and pointed and as far as Sirius was concerned, a dagger stab to the heart—hit him like a truck.

"What _is_ the truth, James?" he asked, in a voice of extreme, forced calm. "Tell me. Go on—I can _take it_. What is it you think I'm afraid to hear?"

Sirius glared at him, defiantly, and James felt his heart sink like a stone in water.

He had never been afraid to say what he really thought to Sirius Black—but they were so much of one mind that in eight years of friendship he had rarely needed to. Even rarer had been the times when the words that came out of James's mouth were ones that Sirius could not have guessed himself, and so he was unsurprised when he looked his best friend in the eye and saw that Padfoot knew exactly what was coming.

That made it ten times worse.

"That you can't run away from them again."

Sirius's expression didn't change, he didn't move, seemed frozen to the spot—but his face flushed an angry scarlet that told James everything he needed to know about how his comment had been received.

"I have to get back," he said, after an excruciatingly long stretch of silence. "Was that all you had to say?"

Sirius's voice was hard and impersonal, but James could read his mood well enough to realize that underneath that icy veneer, his friend was livid.

"Oh, come on, Padfoot," Sirius was not looking at him. "Don't be angry with me."

"I am _not_ angry," his best friend replied—but as Sirius had never been particularly good at holding his temper, this denial practically oozed rage.

James's first instinct was to crack a smile and reply 'no, you're not, you're fucking pissed,' but he doubted this approach would have the desired outcome. Instead he took a step forward and put one warm hand on Sirius's shoulder. His friend did not move, did not speak, merely glared at him, projecting a kind of horrified sense of betrayal that made James's heart lurch.

"Look—all I want is for us to win this war, and to keep Lily and the baby safe. If this is what Dumbledore thinks you should do, well…" he sighed. "I trust him."

Sirius shrugged James's hand off with a cold jerk of his shoulder.

"That makes _one_ of us."

He turned and marched out of the room without another word.


	4. Part Four

_"…_ _Harry could visualize them quite clearly, the frightened old elf and the thin, dark Seeker who had so resembled Sirius. . . . Kreacher knew how to open the concealed entrance to the underground cavern, knew how to raise the tiny boat; this time it was his beloved Regulus who sailed with him to the island with its basin of poison. . . . "_

 _-J.K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows_

 **PART FOUR**

When Sirius stomped into his Lisson Grove flat twenty minutes later, he was in a far fouler mood than he had been when he left, triumphantly, an hour before. The weather, apparently sensing his dampened spirits, had taken a turn for the worse shortly after he left Godric's Hollow. Head still pounding with righteous anger, he had not tried very hard to avoid driving 'Elvira' through the low-hanging, ominous black clouds on his flight back to London.

He had also been far too furious to ask James if he could borrow a jacket, so when he threw open the door of the apartment and stepped inside, Sirius was completely soaked through—wearing only the thin Order of the Phoenix teeshirt that had seemed such a lark when he pulled it out of their dresser forty minutes earlier—and shivering like mad.

Four heads instantly turned in his direction, and Sirius realized with a lurch that Orion and Walburga had beaten him back to the flat. Both wore fresh clothes—he was unpleasantly surprised to find he remembered that the intricately detailed lace gown his mother now sported was one of her favorites—and stood near Regulus, still lying on the sofa—though he had also changed out of his silk pajamas into a more dignified set of dark robes.

Remus hovered near the door to the kitchen, standing about as far from the Black Clan as he could. Sirius glanced at his friend and felt a twinge of guilt— _how long had they been here? How many awful things had they already said to Moony?_ —along with rising respect. He was sure that if it had been _Peter_ he had left for this rendezvous, Wormy would've skivved off at the first sharp word from his mother.

Moony was made of stronger stuff than that.

"Hullo, all," Sirius said, in a surly voice, slamming the door shut behind him.

Though every person in the room stared, he was drawn, almost magnetically, to meet his mother's gaze first. Walburga's sharp gray eyes took in the full picture—his soaking hair and Muggle clothes, how pathetically he was shaking from the cold, and his churlish expression—in about four seconds flat. He could practically see the wheels turning behind her eyes, and his own blood started to pump faster—he was itching for a fight, and as there were no Death Eaters about, she would do nicely.

"Where," Mrs. Black asked, in a voice of forced calm. "Have _you_ been?"

"Out," he replied, curtly, and ignoring his father altogether, Sirius walked across the room, stopping in front of Remus. "Is Dumbledore here yet?"

"No. He should be in a few minutes—" Remus said, faintly, clearly concerned. "Sirius, you look like you walked through a waterfall."

Mrs. Black's face had flushed at being dismissed so unceremoniously, and she loudly cleared her throat. Her elder son pointedly ignored her.

"Sirius Orion, I asked you a question," Sirius's mother said, advancing on him like an invading army. "And I expect a proper answer."

He turned towards her, clenching his wand in the way of someone who is very near drawing it.

"I needed to clear my head," he said, mulishly, but his teeth chattering somewhat detracted from the effect. "So I went for a walk."

"Without a cloak?" she asked, her eyes narrowed. "In _December_?"

"He was wearing a cloak and robes when he left," Regulus interjected, quietly, and his brother threw him such a hostile look that he actually shrunk back into the couch.

"Nobody likes a snitch, Reg," he sneered, voice filled with contempt, but Mrs. Black had already turned towards the younger boy.

"Regulus—where did he go?" she said, in the same tone she used to give orders to her house-elf. "Tell me."

Her younger son mumbled something unintelligible and stared at the floor, and letting out a hiss of frustration, she abandoned this interrogation attempt as quickly as she'd picked it up, instead turning to her husband—who was at her side in an instant. He gave Sirius a shrewd once-over, then tapped her arm in a placatory gesture.

"Looks to me as though he went out on a broom and flew too high," Orion observed, dryly. "Is _that_ what you did, boy?"

Sirius was seized with reckless daring, and he opened his mouth to shout the truth at the two of them—then he caught sight of Regulus's face, shaking his head furiously behind their backs—and the temporary penchant for self-destruction fled.

"…Yes," he answered, tightly. "I went out for a—spin on my broom and I flew through a cloud, alright?"

Both of them rolled their eyes. It was close enough to the truth—and evidently Sirius's parents knew him well enough to know it was the sort of thing he _would_ do—so they accepted this lie at face value.

"And what happened to your cloak?" his mother pressed.

"I gave it to a Muggle tramp," Sirius answered, maliciously. Mrs. Black's eyes flashed again, but her expression remained frozen in its customary cool contempt.

"That is a disgusting falsehood that you've concocted to offend me," his mother said, coldly. "And I don't believe it for one second."

Sirius glared up at her—and was suddenly very aware that Remus was gaping at the two of them, and if this was profoundly humiliating for _him_ , how much more uncomfortable was it for poor Moony to have to witness this _maudlin_ Black family performance?

The least he could do for his poor friend was get him out of here.

"Alright," he grumbled, sticking his wand in his pocket and rubbing his goose-pimply arms. "I flew to James Potter's house, got a change of clothes, left the cloak and robes there, and flew back. That's the truth, and Regulus didn't know anything about it." His brother shot him a grateful look he ignored. "Satisfied?"

Walburga looked down her nose at him. His glare back was rather sullen—though no longer truly angry—and his shivering lent the entire thing a pathetic air.

"Yes," she answered, calmly—and she raised her wand and pointed at him. Instantly his hair and clothing were dry again. "You could have spared us all that scene and just said so."

Stunned, Sirius dropped his arms to his side—warm and dry as he would be if he'd been sitting in front of a toasty fire all afternoon. She and Orion both walked back over to Regulus's bedside. Sirius forced himself to turn and look Remus in the face.

"You don't have to stay, Moony," he said, blandly. It took considerable effort, but he had mastered himself again, and he wore a look of cool detachment just like that of his parents.

Remus gave him a small smile.

"I don't mind, Padfoot—really," he said, his eyes flitting to the Blacks in the corner, then back to his friend, now studying his fingernails with exaggerated haughty boredom. "I have something I need to say to Professor Dumbledore, anyway. I'll wait."

Sirius was sure Moony had absolutely nothing important to tell the leader of the Order of the Phoenix, and that he had made up this feeble excuse to stay. Remus probably thought if he _didn't_ remain in the flat until the Headmaster had safely arrived, Dumbledore would walk in and find three blood-stained corpses strewn about the floor, with only a hysterical Regulus to account for it.

"How long did you say we had to wait for Dumbledore?"

"Oh—" Remus checked his wrist watch. "He said he'd be here about half-past, so—five, ten minutes?"

"Great. Gives us a bit of private time." Sirius nodded sharply in his friend's direction, then crossed the room to the sofa, making a beeline for his mother. "Right—I need to sort something out with you."

Sirius had, in the last three years, finally surpassed his mother in height—he was just a hair's breadth shorter than his father, and was likely to have a final growth spurt that left him eye-to-eye with Orion—but the way Walburga Black held herself meant she could create the effect of looking down on anyone she deemed worthy of her disdain.

She was looking down on Sirius now.

"Sort _what_ out?" Mrs. Black asked, in a tone that suggested she was speaking to an illiterate farm hand.

"That great ruddy fireplace you've stuck in the bedroom—" Sirius replied, undaunted. "It's been fun, but I'll need you to take it out now."

She frowned and gave Orion a sideways look of confusion—he merely shrugged and walked over to the armchair and sat down. It was facing in their direction, which made it look as though Mr. Black was watching his son and wife's unfolding argument as one would light dinner theatre.

"I'm afraid you'll have to make yourself clearer," she said, smoothly. Sirius grimaced in annoyance.

"The fireplace you—transfigured into my house," he said, impatiently. "It's very clever how you've made it so that only you can remove it without bringing down half the wall—but I want that room back the way it was."

"But why?" his mother asked, genuinely perplexed. "The house is drafty and the room is vastly improved by it."

"I don't happen to agree," he replied, testily, but she was now peering around the flat again. With fresh eyes and in the daylight hours, it looked even more drab than it had the previous night. "And furthermore—"

"I don't understand this place," she interrupted him, suddenly. She looked up from the shag carpet, utterly repulsed, and stared at him in frank bewilderment. "You have a wand for a reason. You could easily make it ten times better—"

"I happen to like it the way it is!" Sirius protested, hotly, as she ran a finger over a dirty window sill (she had wandered past the television without stooping to acknowledge it), and she looked around at him, haughtily perturbed. "I don't need magic to fix it—and anyway, not everyone wants to live in a mausoleum like Number Twelve."

" _What_ did you just call our ancestral home?" she asked, voice frigid, but Sirius was undaunted. Regulus looked faintly alarmed, and out of Padfoot's eye line, Remus was rubbing his forehead to stave off a headache.

"You heard me! It's such a gloomy, drab house—and every three steps there's another portrait of a dead Black breathing down your neck ready to tell you off—"

"—Which of course wouldn't matter, if you ever _behaved_ yourself," his father remarked, but Sirius ignored him, fully engrossed in his rambling monologue.

"—I _like_ having a flat that's not like something from the last century, that has no serpent carvings or decorations—" He stalked over to the table where the snake lamp was and waved it in her direction, impudently. "—Or silk, or damask, or iron-wrought anything—and anyway—" He paused to take in a long, shuddering breath. "—I've got a landlady who checks in once every couple months, and I'm not supposed to change anything—that carved ivory number you put in's a _bit_ noticeable."

Up until now, his tirade against the House of Mrs. Black's Fathers had been irritating to her, but she had evidently not taken it very seriously. She kept shooting her husband annoyed looks, as if it was _his_ fault that their son had such execrable taste. It was only when when Sirius brought up Mrs. Jenkins, his doddering landlady, that she appeared truly scandalized.

"A 'landlady'?" Walburga repeated, the very word revolting every fibre of her being. "You mean—a Muggle woman comes in here and holds _you_ accountable for the state of this sty?"

She and her husband exchanged dark looks.

"Yeah—I'm only renting it from her," Sirius said, equally cold. "And part of the lease terms—"

"—You are a _wizard_!" she cut him off, exasperation obvious. "If you're going to allow them to traipse in, at least have the self-respect to modify their memories and send them on their way."

"Can you even _hear_ yourself?" Sirius asked, scathingly, and he dropped the lamp back on the table and turned around to Lupin, looking for support. Remus appeared to be trying to disappear into the wallpaper. "That's not the point—and you can't just go about obliviating people left and right—"

"You can _perform_ a memory charm, I trust?" his mother asked, the faintest sneer on her lips. "You aren't a squib on top of being a sentimental fool, I mean."

"Of course I can perform a damned memory—"

"Not interrupting anything, am I?"

As Regulus was the one person facing the kitchen door, only he knew how long Albus Dumbledore had been quietly standing there. The old Headmaster's smile was benign as ever, and he looked around the room with polite curiosity. If the younger Black brother's expression of mild embarrassment was anything to go on, Remus guessed that he had heard quite a bit.

"Nothing interesting," Orion observed, caustically, turning around in the chair to look at Dumbledore. "You're late."

"My apologies—matters took a tad longer than predicted." Dumbledore strode into the living room, looking between Sirius and Regulus with frank interest. "I hope you have not been waiting _too_ long."

Nobody answered him.

"I heard you came back last night, Professor Dumbledore," Sirius said, stepping forward—the argument with his mother quickly forgotten, or at least pushed under the shag carpet. "You could have woken me."

"But you were sleeping so peacefully—snoring, in fact," Dumbledore, said, his voice brimming with amusement. "I did consider it, but Mrs. Black thought it more—prudent—to let you rest. I thought it better to defer to your mother in this, as she would, naturally, have your best interests at heart."

It took every bit of self-restraint Sirius had not to reply with the utmost sarcasm to this statement. Dumbledore seemed to read his thoughts, for he turned to address the rest of the room with the faintest of smiles.

"Well—" Dumbledore clapped his hands together. "I'm pleased to report the best possible news. By all accounts, no Death Eaters—nor Lord Voldemort himself, apparently—know anything at all about what occurred last night."

Regulus, pale-faced and eyes glittering, nodded stiffly—the Black parents were their usual inscrutable selves. Of the family, only Sirius looked visibly relieved, and he let out a loud exhale and shot his brother a quick, encouraging smile.

Dumbledore turned Walburga.

"I assume nothing out of the ordinary was said when your sister-in-law and niece came to call, Mrs. Black?" he asked, courteously. "Nothing to arouse suspicion?"

"Nothing," Walburga said, brusquely.

In all the excitement, Sirius had nearly forgotten that he had bothered to wheedle out of Kreacher who it was his mother was having tea.

"And how _were_ Aunt Druella and Narcissa?" He walked over to the sofa and plopped down at the end, next to Regulus's feet. "Their usual _charming_ selves?"

It might've been a polite question, if not for the thinly veiled sarcasm that Mrs. Black pointedly ignored.

"They are very well," his mother said, and then added, with a hint of pride. "Narcissa is with child."

Sirius, upon learning of the imminent birth of his cousin once-removed, looked about as excited as his mother was when she looked at his orange shag rug.

"It's about time," Orion sniffed, while Regulus sat, eyes wide at the news.

On the other end of the couch, his brother was not bothering to hide his true feelings on this bit of family gossip. He caught Remus's eye, opened his mouth and mimed retching into the flower pot. Dumbledore was attending to his mother politely and didn't notice—nor, apparently did his parents.

"It's to be a boy," Walburga continued, proudly. "And they've decided to call him 'Draco.'"

This, it seemed, was too much for Sirius to take.

"' _Draco Malfoy_ '?" he repeated, obviously revolted. "Merlin, even the name speaks to what a git he's going to become."

"What an ill-bred thing to say about Narcissa's child," his mother scolded him, crossly. "He hasn't even been born yet."

"I suppose that's fair," Sirius conceded, with a shrug. "And it's not his fault his father's the _king_ git."

"Do not be rude about your cousin's husband," Orion barked at his eldest son, autocratically—which elicited a single sharp 'ha!' of laughter.

"Oh, that's rich, coming from _you."_

"What on earth am I to take _that_ to mean?"

" _Please,"_ Sirius said, grinning mischievously at his father. "You don't like Lucius Malfoy any more than I do. You've always thought he was a sly, poncy prat."

Mr. Black was so taken aback that he actually stood up and turned to look at his elder son.

"I've never said anything of the kind!" Orion said, visibly affronted.

"You've said far worse!" Sirius retorted, with a snort. "You disliked him before he even _married_ Narcissa. I'll never forget that—it's one of the few things we've ever agreed on."

"I haven't the faintest notion of what you're spouting off about," his father snapped—though Remus thought if it weren't true, the Black patriarch was being a trifle defensive—and he also was rather determinedly not looking at his wife, who watched the exchange with undisguised interest.

Sirius stood up and casually stuck in his hands in his pockets, grin widening, looking between his parents with frank delight.

"When the Malfoys were dithering over Cissy's dowry, trying to squeeze Uncle Cygnus for more gold, you told him he ought to withhold consent for the marriage," Sirius said, in a teasing voice. "You said Lucius was an 'impertinent whelp' who should consider himself lucky to be marrying a Black at all, how dare he expect to be well-paid for it into the bargain, and wasn't their anyone _better_ who could take her?"

Orion's face froze in shocked displeasure, but the recollection had the opposite effect on his son. _He_ was outright laughing now.

"And wasn't it _you_ —" Sirius continued, immensely enjoying catching Mr. Black out. "—Who, at their engagement party, after _several_ glasses of mulled wine, told granddad and Uncle Alphard that they should take care to count the galleons in their pockets after every social engagement, now that there's a Malfoy in the family?"

A wiser man would have taken one look at the fuming Mr. Black and left it there—but Sirius could not resist the _coup-de-grace,_ not when he had such an audience.

"Of course, you had to concede they were probably safe, owing to the fact that Lucius had about half the brains of his father and was so Malfoy slick he'd probably leave a trail of oil in his wake—"

By the time Orion had crossed the room, thunderously angry, his eldest son had stopped laughing—with great difficulty.

"What have I always said to you," he hissed, through clenched teeth, as Sirius tried to regain control of himself. "About _wretches_ who listen at key holes?"

"That one day they'll all come to a bad end?" his son supplied, innocently, wiping a tear from his eye. His father's studied displeasure persisted, so Sirius tried again. "And that it's behavior fit only for stinking sneak thieves and deeply below my—erm, dignity to do?"

His father glared at him for a long moment, but Sirius had fixed his face in a familiar expression—charming, mildly contrite (he knew not to oversell that part, though he was so out of practice it was blatantly obvious now he wasn't sorry at all)—that was designed to take the sting out of a scolding and lessen punishments.

If the intended effect was to disarming him—to the surprise of everyone in the room, it actually worked.

"You shock me," Orion said, his voice heavy with sarcasm—no longer truly angry. "Here I was, convinced you never took in a blasted word I said to you, and it turns out you remember far more than I would've liked."

"Ironic, isn't it?" Sirius said—and somewhere, buried in his amusement at Orion's expense, long-buried fondness peaked out. "You never thought I was listening, and all that time I was busy memorializing you, Dad."

The use of _that word_ , coupled with Sirius's affectionate tone, had an immediate and peculiar effect on his father. Orion Black had been quite content to glower at his son up until that point—but upon hearing that familiar, impudent title, the mere act of _looking_ at Sirius seemed to cause him no small amount of discomfort. Mr. Black cleared his throat and resolutely looked away from his grinning son—only to meet Albus Dumbledore's piercing gaze instead.

Orion narrowed his eyes at the Headmaster of Hogwarts. Dumbledore stared back, expression mild—but his eyes had the inexplicable knowing quality one could always recognize from the old wizard, and something silently passed between the two men—a shared understanding.

When Orion looked back at Sirius, he was expressionless once more.

"Yes, well—it would be more shocking if you actually _heeded_ what I said," he told his son, dryly.

Mr. Black turned around and walked back to armchair without another word. Sirius blinked and slowly sat back down—he had not expected to get off _that_ easily.

Dumbledore cleared his throat.

"You're being awfully quiet about your cousin's child-to-be, Regulus," he remarked, and the boy—nearly motionless on the sofa, watching his brother provoke their father in that daring style of Sirius's that was so foreign to him—started. He blinked up at Dumbledore, pale face expressionless.

"Considering I may never _meet_ him," Regulus was calm, but his voice shook, slightly. "There's not much to say."

Dumbledore walked towards him. His smile was kind.

"That's an awfully pessimistic view, for a man who so recently escaped death," Dumbledore remarked, cheerily, kneeling down next to Regulus. "May I?"

Wordlessly, Regulus pulled back the sleeve of his arm. The chunk of flesh that the Inferi had pulled from his arm was visible across the room—Remus saw it and winced.

"I'm afraid this scar will be permanent," Dumbledore said, regretfully. "Do you still feel weak from the potion?" Regulus nodded. "That's to be expected—I have an idea of what it was from the symptoms I observed and the effect you described. It will take…some time for you to fully recover from the experience."

Regulus nodded again, resigned to his bedrest. Sirius, however, was frowning—something had just occurred to him.

"Hold up, Reg," he interjected, puzzled. "Why wouldn't you ever meet Cissy's baby?"

His younger brother swallowed and looked over at their mother and father, which gave Sirius an odd, apprehensive feeling in the pit of his stomach. Regulus was spared having to answer the question by Dumbledore.

"We discussed—among other things—how best to conceal your brother's whereabouts," Dumbledore said, gravely. "My first instinct was rather drastic—I thought we might have to stage his death."

"What?" Sirius said, stunned. "How was that supposed to work—make so everyone thinks Reg is dead until—until Voldemort is? That could take years." He looked down at his younger brother, shivering again, and felt an overwhelming urge to put another blanket around his shoulders. "And what would Regulus do in the meantime?"

"For the present, I think, your parents' alternative idea will do," Dumbledore said, nodding deferentially to the Blacks. "The cover story is not a permanent solution, but it is less extreme—and buys us some time."

Regulus and Sirius both looked at their parents—neither of whom looked all that forthcoming.

"I'm almost afraid to ask," Sirius joked, absently patting Regulus's foot. "But what's the cover?"

"Those who inquire as to the reason for Regulus's absence," said Dumbledore, his eyes twinkling. "Will be informed he has been suddenly called away to the continent to discuss a possible marriage with a very well-bred young witch from—Provence, I believe? I am told, reliably, that the negotiations could take several weeks."

Sirius could not have been more obviously amused. Regulus caught sight of his brother's evil grin and blushed bright scarlet.

"That's brilliant—will anyone buy it, though?" Sirius laughed, turning and nudging Regulus—now glaring sulkily at him—on the knee in a jocular manner. "Imagine little Reggie tying the noose about his neck."

"I don't see what's so amusing about it," his mother remarked, lightly. "It's exactly what we intended to do with you."

She might as well have slapped the smile off right off of Sirius's face. When he realized his friend was blushing just as red as his brother had been a moment earlier, Remus turned towards the doorway to hide his smile.

"Just when I think I couldn't possibly have any _more_ reasons for being glad to get away from that house," Sirius told his mother, ears still burning. "You give me another."

"Personally," Walburga continued, haughtily, as if she hadn't heard him. "I think marriage would've suited. You needed a wife to sort you out. Preferably one—" She noticed his red face and smiled, blithely. "—who's good with a wand."

For about half a second Sirius thought his mother might've actually _missed_ the unfortunate double meaning of her word choice—and then he saw the knowing gleam in her eye and he felt his face burn again—this time with anger as much as embarrassment.

She knew exactly what she was saying. She had actually _meant_ it that way, the insane shrew—

He heard a noise from the corner of the room that sounded like a snigger. Sirius looked over at his friend and realized, with mute horror, that Moony (the traitor) had put a hand over his mouth to muffle a laugh.

"The story won't raise any eyebrows," Orion remarked, placidly, apparently oblivious to his quietly stewing son. "There aren't that many eligible girls in England his age—he wouldn't be the first one sent abroad."

"Then we're agreed," Dumbledore said. "All that's left is arrangements for the family—ways and means, going forward."

Dumbledore's stress on the word 'family' was light, but Remus took that as his cue. He already felt like he'd spent too much time here as it was. It was going to be very hard to look Sirius in the eye the next time they were alone together.

"Professor Dumbledore, if that's what you have to talk about—" He gestured to the door. "Maybe it's best if I—"

"Wait."

They all turned to look at Regulus, who sat up straight now—his eyes glittering.

"I've—things to say," Regulus said, in the loudest, clearest voice he had managed to muster since he arrived at the flat. It sounded like he was really trying to imitate his father. "And Lupin should hear them as well."

The werewolf stared at Regulus, clearly surprised at being addressed by him thus. Sirius turned round on the couch and eyed his brother skeptically, but Dumbledore considered him.

"Go on," he said, simply.

"For this—in exchange, I…" Regulus's voice faltered as every eye in the room stared at him. He had never enjoyed being the center of attention like Sirius—but then his eyes met his mother's, and she nodded at him, and Regulus's courage rose. "I have conditions."

Sirius snorted.

"D'you really think you're in a position to be making demands?" he asked, a definite edge in his voice. His mother had predictably managed to evaporate most of the good will he'd been feeling towards the lot of them. "When you came to _us_ for protection?"

He looked around at Dumbledore, but the Leader of the Order of the Phoenix was watching the younger Black brother intently.

"I should very much like to hear them," he said—and if Regulus's former school headmaster wasn't taking him seriously, you'd never have known it.

"First—" Regulus swallowed, hard. "I expect—immunity. To be kept out of…"

"Azkaban?" Dumbledore supplied, mildly. The very word struck Regulus with obvious fear; he was still very pale, and his trembling had returned. "I will exert all my influence in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement and with the Wizengamot, naturally."

"And I want—" His eyes flitted to his parents, then back to Dumbledore.

"Protection for your mother and father—in as much as I am able and they are willing, I will provide," the old wizard said, carefully modulating his voice. "Forgive me, Regulus—these were terms that we discussed last night, I'm afraid I don't—"

" _No one else can know_!" the boy blurted out, loudly. Dumbledore blinked slowly, peered over his spectacles at Regulus. For the first time he looked as though he might genuinely be surprised.

"About…the—the locket, the cave—me, whatever we decide to do. No one else—not in the Ministry, not in your—Order can know about _any_ of it, do you understand?" Regulus said, feverishly—as if he had to get it all out before he lost his nerve. "That's not negotiable."

"'Not negotiable'?" Sirius repeated, incredulously. "What're you going to do if we don't agree, walk out the door?"

But Regulus was not looking at his brother, had his eyes fixed on Dumbledore, desperate, pleading. The old wizard's face remained inscrutable.

"I accept those terms," he said, after a moment. "But I am curious as to why you insist upon them."

The young Death Eater's face shined with sweat, but he was quite calm and matter-of-fact when he spoke.

"He has eyes everywhere."

"But not in the Order of the Phoenix."

"So you say," Regulus replied, cooly. "You believe it. _You_ trust them all."

"I do," Dumbledore replied, evenly. He was still watching Regulus with that curious, fixed expression. "I trust the members of the Order unreservedly. I do not see the point in acting otherwise."

"Then you are an even bigger fool than the Dark Lord takes you for."

Dumbledore was not offended in the slightest by this—the benign smile did not leave his face, though one could tell by the way his eyes narrowed a fraction that the words had impact on him.

Sirius, meanwhile, was furious—made a movement towards his brother—Dumbledore stopped him with a look.

"Am I right in assuming you believe that you are in danger—" Dumbledore asked, slowly turning back towards Regulus. "—from within the Order of the Phoenix itself?"

Sirius and Remus exchanged looks of shock, but the Black parents only stared at their younger son, eyes glittering.

"I didn't say that."

"But you implied it," Dumbledore said, still in his light, gentle way—and his electric blue eyes pierced through Regulus's. "Has Voldemort told you he as a spy?"

The boy stared back—his bravado dimmed slightly.

"Of course not—"

"But you _believe_ he does." The boy's face went ashen. "It is, forgive me, Regulus—rather obvious. You fear what you have done will get back to him—and that could only happen if Lord Voldemort had someone in a position to deliver him that information—a Member of the Order, in other words."

"He…he _might_ —" Regulus said, his eyes narrowed—voice steady again. "He could. The Dark Lord, he…he always knows. And if he finds out…"

At just the thought of what Voldemort would do to the people in the room that Regulus cared for had transformed him back into the frightened boy again.

"You must have a reason for thinking this. Has he spoken of it in front of you?"

"Of course not! I'm not in his confidences—no one is," Regulus laughed, coldly. "I just don't underestimate him."

"Nor do I." Dumbledore looked thoughtful. "In this case, Lord Voldemort's mistake appears to have been underestimating _you,_ Regulus."

The boy trembled—he said nothing. The old man considered his next question for a long time before he asked it.

"I wonder…do you have someone in mind?" Dumbledore's tone was mild, his gaze more piercing than ever. "A person you suspect?"

The younger Black brother—lately of the Death Eaters, so recently a servant of Lord Voldemort—looked at Dumbledore in silence. He was clearly doing some fast thinking, eyes darting between his parents, Sirius and the old wizard.

He seemed to come to some sort of decision. Regulus's expression hardened—and he eyed Dumbledore with suspicion bordering on distrust.

"Even if I _did_ know, I wouldn't tell you."

This answer elicited no response from Dumbledore—but its effect on Regulus's older brother was instant.

"Why you slimy little Slytherin _worm_ ," Sirius said, furiously, leaping up from the sofa and turning round on his brother. "What the _hell_ do you think you're doing?"

"If I wanted your advice," Regulus replied, coldly. "I'd ask for it."

"This isn't a game, you don't get to _throw your weight around_!" Sirius said, then added, derisively. "Not that in _your_ case there's much to throw."

Regulus's eyes flashed with displeasure.

"Sirius—"

He ignored Dumbledore, only had eyes for his brother, who had gone glacial and looked as though he wished to curl up in a hard, protective ball.

"Is this for _their_ benefit, then—" He jerked his head, unpleasantly, in the direction of Orion and Walburga—both momentarily shocked into silence. Regulus glared up at him and said nothing. "This little act? D'you think it makes you a big man, that they're _impressed_ by it—

"Sirius, that is _enough_."

Dumbledore's sharp, commanding voice rang through the sitting room, and Sirius froze, looked over at the old wizard—who was giving him a look of severe warning, and slowly…very slowly—lowered the wand arm he had not even realized he'd raised.

"Right…" He breathed in and out heavily, still glowering at his brother. Regulus looked as though he might start to cry, and it filled Sirius with a sense of petty contempt coupled with vague guilt—which only served to make him furious with himself. He refused to give his parents the satisfaction of looking at them. "Right—"

He pulled his eyes away from Reg and walked over to Remus, who was looking at him with real apprehension. You could have heard a Knarl quill drop in the room.

"Very well," Dumbledore continued, in a very calm voice, as if nothing untoward or out of the ordinary had just occurred. "I accept the terms. This means I have a job for you, Remus, of course."

"Sir…?"

"I'll need you to go to Godric's Hollow at once and inform Lily and James of what has happened. The three of you are not to speak of what has happened here in the last twelve hours to anyone else—not in the Order or your families. Do you understand?"

"Of course. I'll go right now." He walked over to the closet and took out the tweed coat that James and Sirius had gotten him on his last birthday—one of the few nice pieces of clothing he had, for he always refused their offers to buy him new sets of robes or nicer trousers and jeans. Then it had been his birthday, and they had not taken 'no' for an answer.

He looked back over at Sirius, who was now staring at a strip of chipped paint on the wall as if it were the most interesting thing in the room.

"I'm—going now, Padfoot," he said, timidly. Sirius made a small "mm" sound of acknowledgement, eyes still boring into the wall. "To see Lily and James. I was wondering if there's—any message you'd like me to pass on?"

Sirius's sharp eyes narrowed, and he looked away from the spot.

"Yeah. Actually, yeah, Moony—there is." He turned and looked round at his friend, standing at the door. "Tell James that until he's ready to apologize to me, I don't want to see him or speak to him."

Remus's face fell like a card castle.

"Sirius…"

"You'll be sure to pass on that message, won't you, Remus?" he asked, in a slightly too-loud voice, bored voice. "Just as I said it, mind."

"Padfoot—"

"I give you permission to convey tone," he said, even louder.

Remus looked at him for a moment, then nodded and murmured an awkward goodbye to the rest of the Blacks. He slowly opened the door and walked out of the front door of the flat, carefully shutting it behind him with a snap.

There was a long silence.

"…Did you get in a row with your friend Potter?" Regulus asked, quietly—knowing better but not able to resist the question. When his brother looked over at him, it was with utmost scorn.

"If I did, what business would it be of _yours_?" Sirius answered, icily, and Regulus shrunk back into the sofa. He looked over at Dumbledore, who was watching him, knowingly. "What _else_ do we have to discuss, professor? Only it's been a long night and I think I'd rather like to go back to bed."

"And wake up to find this was all a nightmare" was the unsaid but apparent end of the thought.

His old headmaster gave him a small smile, but Sirius's ill-tempered look remained firmly planted on his face.

"Only a few practical matters remain—" Dumbledore walked over to the Black family patriarch. "Orion, as you and your wife have had some time to reflect—"

"—Our intentions are unchanged," Mr. Black said, firmly. Sirius started and looked over at his father, anger momentary forgotten in favor of curiosity.

"Very well," said Dumbledore said, in a resigned voice. "I—cannot say I am surprised."

"Professor, what—"

Dumbledore held a hand up to silence Sirius.

"I feel compelled to tell you," Dumbledore continued, addressing the Black parents directly. "That you are undertaking a course of action with considerable risks. I can only guarantee you so much in the way of protection this way—it may seem a matter of convenience—"

"We're well aware of the risks," Walburga said, cooly. "We're not fools."

"But Mother—"

"I think you've said quite enough for one day, Regulus," his mother scolded him—though not harshly. He obeyed her—clearly not thrilled, but also not willing to argue the point.

"Then—" Dumbledore continued, stepping back to address the entire family as a group. "I suppose all that's left is to determine how best to handle visitation of your younger son safely and discreetly, as well as—"

"Hang on."

Dumbledore looked over at Sirius, who was now gaping at him with a mixture of incredulity and deep confusion.

"Professor, I'm not sure I—" He let out a small, unnatural chuckle. "Really understand what's going on. What's a—risk, here?"

"Your mother and father have decided that, while your brother is in 'in France'—" Dumbledore smiled. "—That is to say, in hiding—rather than joining him, they will resume their everyday lives. They will take care to make the rumor of his coming engagement spread far and wide in their social circles. Orion believes—" He did not seem to have noticed that Sirius's face had turned the color of chalk. "—And though I would not have asked it of him, I cannot disagree with his contention—that if they _also_ withdrew from society it would arouse far more suspicion."

Sirius nodded. It was the stiff action of a mannequin doll.

"Naturally," Dumbledore continued conversationally. "This is also far more convenient for them."

"And heaven forbid anyone be—inconvenienced," he replied, hollowly, face still bloodless. "Professor Dumbledore—" He was surprised by the note of undisguised panic in his own voice. "—May I speak to you—privately?"

"Certainly." Dumbledore blinked at him with polite curiosity. "We're almost done here, so—"

"No, I mean right now," Sirius interrupted, anxiety obvious. "Can I speak to you _right now?_ "

There was a short pause.

"You believe what you have to say to me—" Dumbledore peered down his spectacles at Sirius, his gaze piercing, his expression carefully detached. "—Cannot wait?"

"No, it really can't," Sirius said, flatly—the panic replaced with steely resolve. He was not looking at _them_ , though he could feel all three sets of eyes looking at him, sizing him up. Three _snakes—_ that was what he saw in his mind's eye, and it gave him courage, toughened him up, focused him. "I really do need to speak to you right now. Alone."

For a moment it seemed as though Dumbledore might argue with him, but to his relief, the old man simply nodded.

"Very well." Dumbledore nodded politely to the rest of the clan and followed the agitated older son into the kitchen.

Sirius practically slammed the door shut behind him.

"Sir—professor—" He spun around and found Dumbledore standing in the middle his dirty, linoleum covered kitchen, fixing him with a look of utmost calm and understanding. "You aren't just going to…you can't possibly think you can just—let them walk out of here!"

He paced up and down in front of his mentor like a caged animal.

"On what pretense do you imagine I could hold them, Sirius?" Dumbledore asked, immediately—and there was something about his automatic answer that suggested he had been expecting this line of questions and was prepared for it—which only served to agitate Sirius more. "They have done nothing wrong."

"' _Done nothing wrong'_?" Sirius repeated, incredulously. "What about feeding, clothing and housing a Death Eater for the past two years, for a start?"

"Even if that were a crime—and you'll find the law very gray on this point—" Dumbledore replied, evenly. "It would be very difficult to prove that they knew what your brother was—and given your grandfather's influence on the Wizengamot, even less likely that they would be prosecuted for it."

Sirius let out a growl of frustration—Dumbledore was deftly deflecting him at every turn, didn't he see that wasn't the point at _all_?

"They are a pair of pure-blood maniacs—"

"Their attitudes and inclinations—however objectionable—are also not crimes," Dumbledore interrupted, bluntly. He frowned. "I am the last man who will say the affair we find ourselves in is ideal, Sirius—I am not naive, however much you may think it of me in this moment. I am well aware of how _fraught_ the situation is. I know there is danger. And I— like your father—have weighed the risks."

There was steely resolve in Dumbledore's voice, and the look his young lieutenant shot him was positively mutinous.

"We cannot trust them," Sirius said, in a low voice. "Any of them. You let them walk out of here—"

"—I ask you again, Sirius—what other option do I have?" Dumbledore asked, calmly—though he was clearly losing his patience. "I am perfectly willing to consider an alternative to the plan your father has proposed, if you have one."

Sirius was sure there was no alternative that the man in front of him had not already considered, and that he was being humored, currently—which only roused him in his desire to fight.

"Easy," he said, walking over to the kitchen table and leaning on it. "You could modify their memories."

Dumbledore appeared to consider this suggestion for a long moment—but it was painfully obvious to Sirius that he didn't think much of this potential plan. The younger wizard had the feeling the pause was more to make him feel ashamed for suggesting it than anything else.

He looked down at the dirty linoleum floor and scuffed his sneaker against it.

"…Do you really think that is the best course of action, in this case?" Dumbledore asked him, quietly.

"It's the _safest_ course of action!" Sirius shot back, fiercely, ignoring the clear disappointment in the older man's voice. "You're the most brilliant wizard alive, you could easily make it so none of this night happened. They wouldn't need to know anything about where Regulus had gone—"

"You would have me forcibly wrench his parents from him?" Dumbledore asked, pointedly. "Given everything that your brother has been through?"

The image of Regulus being sick on his floor rose up in Sirius's mind—Regulus shivering on the sofa, shaking uncontrollably, Kreacher practically strangling him with joy because he was alive, alive, _alive_ —

He shook his head and pushed the picture aside.

"He never wanted them to know about this in the first place, and anyway—" Sirius continued, heartlessly. "Does what _he_ wants matter?"

"It matters a great deal," Dumbledore replied, as calm as ever. "I am trying to engender his trust, and I hardly think treating his family so callously is the way to do it—"

"If _information_ is what you're after," Sirius said, coldly, passing over the accusation of callousness altogether. "I suggest you just use Veritaserum on him. You heard what he said back there—he has no intention of giving you anything else willingly."

"That is not what he said at all, Sirius," Dumbledore corrected him, gently.

"But—"

"Be sensible," Dumbledore interrupted, more forcefully. "You know Regulus is only acting in the way he was brought up—with cunning and prudence. All he cares about is guaranteeing his family's safety. He—or I should say, _they—_ do not trust me at my word. He is skittish, barely more than a schoolboy, and from his perspective it makes perfect sense not to give me all he has to offer now." Dumbledore's face softened. "I cannot blame him for thinking he may need something to bargain with later—and nor should you. He is terrified."

"That's not an excuse!" Sirius said, savagely. He was furious at the old man—for his calm understanding, his pity and concern—he was still smarting from the heaps of praise that Dumbledore had laid at Regulus's feet the night before, words that had reminded him painfully of an adolescence spent being the constant disappointment, always compared to Regulus, _always_ found wanting.

As if he had read Sirius's thoughts, Dumbledore took a few steps toward him—expression kindly, with no accusation.

"You are naturally courageous, Sirius—your brother is not, nor will he ever be," the old wizard continued, with an almost painful gentleness. "Forgive me for saying it, but you are holding him to a standard he cannot hope to live up to." Dumbledore smiled, sadly. "It is very easy to do this with the people one loves."

"I do _not_ —"

He choked on the words before he could finish—for he knew he did not mean it, and his pride could not stomach taking them back in front of this man he admired so much—and so he fell silent again. Dumbledore was looking at him with the same kindly understanding he had employed on Regulus, and Sirius did not welcome it directed towards _him_ anymore than he had his brother.

It made him feel like an insect under a magnifying glass.

"I know you well, Sirius. I cannot think," Dumbledore continued, in his kindest voice. "That you truly wish for me to coldly and methodically extract information about the Death Eaters from your brother and then—like a tool that has outlived its usefulness— discard him."

"That is not what I said," Sirius replied, visibly stung. Dumbledore bowed his head in apology.

"You're right—it was unfair of me to suggest," he said, mildly. "In any case—Regulus is not the real reason you called me into your kitchen so abruptly."

"No—he's not." Sirius pushed off the table and began pacing up and down the room again. "Look, professor, with all due respect—"

"A favorite phrase of your youth, often employed in our many chats in my office," Dumbledore observed, wryly. "Though I rarely found the words that followed it to suggest much in the way of respect."

Sirius did not welcome the older man's affectionate remembrances now—in fact, he found them quite irritating.

"You don't know them like I do," he said, flatly.

Dumbledore smiled, in his patient and knowing way that Sirius usually found so charming, but right now made him want to throw a chair across the kitchen table.

"That is, of course, very true," the older wizard replied, thoughtfully. "I could never dream of knowing your parents as well as you."

"So then why aren't you taking my warnings seriously at all?" Sirius demanded, and he stopped pacing. He kept running a hand through his hair, frustration evident. "I am only trying to protect the interests of the Order—"

"This where our disagreement lies, Sirius," Dumbledore said, sitting down at the kitchen table and smiling up at him. "Your knowledge of Orion and Walburga Black gives you expertise and perspective—but it does not make you objective. Quite the contrary—" Sirius's eyes widened in surprise. "Your history with them renders you, among the people involved, the one _most_ incapable of impartiality."

"Look, I'm not wrong!" Sirius protested, gesticulating with one hand. "I've spoken enough to them in the last twelve hours to know their views haven't changed at all—"

"You say you fear what they will do," Dumbledore cut him off, briskly. "Do you imagine that they will seek out Voldemort or his followers, after what has happened? What possible inducement would they have to do so?"

"We can't trust them _not_ to!" Sirius shot back, and he could hear his own desperation. "The only loyalty they have is to themselves—"

"—Which in this case is to our advantage," the other man said, losing patience again. "Think, Sirius—truly, you know your parents are not Voldemort partisans. They are not Death Eaters in waiting—they would be less suited to his ranks than even your brother was."

"They've got a niece and two nephews by marriage who're Death Eaters," Sirius pointed out. "At the very least—what if they told them things about the Order—"

"The only valuable intel they could report is the hiding spot of their younger son —a defected Death Eater who has stolen an immensely valuable object from his master—in the apartment of their elder son, a notorious fighter for the Order of the Phoenix." Dumbledore was never a sarcastic man, but here he came rather close to it. "I think it—forgive me—unlikely they will tell anyone."

Sirius wanted to shake him—didn't he _get it_?

"You cannot operate under the assumption they'll act _rationally_."

"I'm not sure of that," Dumbledore said, mildly—and Sirius pulled another face. "Right now they are behaving as _any_ parents would when their children are under threat—and considering who they are, their sense of family pride—" Dumbledore had the hint of a smile again. "—I rather think their version of protectiveness might have more sting than most."

He grimaced at this word choice, which put him in mind of a pair of vipers.

"There's something else—the locket," Sirius walked over to the window and stared out it, shifting his weight from the ball of one foot to the other. It was raining hard, now—a miserable December day to reflect his mood. "They know that it's—a Horcrux."

He peered back at the other man to see how he would take this news. Dumbledore did not seem shocked.

"Did your mother or father tell you this?" he asked. Sirius turned away from the window, shaking his head.

"No—she only implied it, heavily, when I asked. You see—" Sirius stuck his hands in his pockets and sighed. "—When we were kids I pilfered a book out of our father's study. Horcruxes were in there—diagrams, and everything—I showed it to him." The shadow of a smile passed over Sirius's face, but he also looked chagrined. "Poor Reg—he had nightmares for weeks. 'Course, once they realized I'd taken it, I got a royal hiding."

"So—" Dumbledore's eyes twinkled. "—It appears we owe this great turning point in the war in no small part to your lifelong penchant for mischief."

Sirius laughed and rubbed the back of his neck, ruefully.

"I don't suppose they'll give me an Order of Merlin for it."

Dumbledore stood up, crossed the room and joined him where he stood by the window. The two of them turned and watched a pair of pigeons—sooty, rather woebegone animals, even for this part of London—take refuge from the foul weather in the eave of Sirius's window.

"…Are you concerned?" Dumbledore said, after a moment. He looked sideways at Sirius, who watched the two birds, his face inscrutable. "Your parents know the significance of what Regulus stole, now—are you, like your brother, afraid they have become targets by association?"

"Of course not!" His exclamation startled the pair of pigeons, and they both flew off. "I couldn't—I couldn't care less what happens to either of them."

Dumbledore fixed his former student with that familiar, singular look—as if he was seeing right through him. Face burning from the scrutiny, Sirius turned back to staring out the window.

"Is that true?" the old man asked, mildly. "If it was discovered they knew where your brother was, if your mother was tortured for the information, your father killed…" He trailed off. "….You would be _entirely_ unmoved?"

Sirius stared at the wall of the neighboring flat. In the distance he heard the sound of a car backfiring, a cat screech, the rubbish truck coming to pick up the bins—was it Wednesday, already? This seemed altogether too extraordinary a conversation to be having on a late Wednesday morning.

"Don't be ridiculous," Sirius said at last, turing to look into the electric blue eyes. "Not even Voldemort would dare try to torture my mother."

The old wizard chuckled, quietly.

"Yes, she is a rather—formidable witch," Dumbledore said, his voice light—Sirius's mouth twitched. "And, I must say, as one who taught her—an excellent student of Transfiguration."

"Oh, I'm well aware of her _talents_ ," Sirius replied, moodily. "She's already transfigured my bedroom wall—put in a great stone fireplace that I can't figure out how to get rid of!"

Sirius kicked the wall in annoyance and missed Dumbledore's smile.

"Have you considered _asking_ your mother to remove it—"

"She's so spiteful that she refuses to, the barmy old—"

"—Politely?"

Sirius snapped his mouth shut and threw Dumbledore another resentful look—but it did not appear to bother the wizard in the slightest.

"Sir—" Sirius sucked in a long, shallow breath and walked back over to the counter, where a browning banana sat. Casually, he picked it up, if only to do something with his hands—Merlin, he was hungry. Perhaps it was his light-headedness that was making this conversation go as poorly as it was. "Sir, I went to Godric's Hollow this morning."

"I gathered as much." Dumbledore considered his next words with the utmost care. "You spoke to Lily?"

"Yes—and James." In a fit of petulance, he tossed the banana into the sink and spun around on his foot. "They seem to under the impression that you have a…mad idea about using my parents as spies, or something."

He forced a laugh.

"That is not…precisely what I had in mind," Dumbledore said—a denial that had the distinct whiff of not being much of one.

"And," he added, determined to force himself to say it and have it refuted, once and for all. "And they _also_ seemed to think you wanted me to help…convince them!"

"Sirius—"

"I told them that as _barking_ as you can be, there was no way you'd get such a…such a…"

Apparently there was no word outlandish enough to describe this imagined plan that Lily had invented. Sirius was keenly aware of the other man's searching blue eyes still firmly planted on him—and the fact that he was not, as his young protégé had hoped, rushing to deny any of it.

"…Such a ludicrous notion," he finished, lamely. Dumbledore waited politely for Sirius to say more—when he did not, the headmaster cleared his throat.

"I need you to listen to me, Sirius," he said, clearly and slowly. "Regulus has given us something of immense value—something I had only guessed at up until now—a piece of Voldemort's very soul. He, at present, does not know that it is missing. What I said last night was not mere flattery. Our entire position—the whole war effort—is vastly improved, thanks to your brother's actions."

Sirius felt his spirits rise at this—whatever small envy still niggled at him, the thought that Voldemort was so much closer to being defeated, and that Dumbledore was confiding in him, meant far more.

"Does this mean that you could kill him, now, sir?" Sirius asked, eagerly. Dumbledore sighed.

"I wish it were so simple…" He trailed off, thoughtfully. "Certainly it is a large step in the direction of his defeat. As for the plans I discussed with Lily last night—they are twofold. As for your brother—"

Dumbledore contemplated his former pupil, standing at attention, the consummate soldier.

"Regulus still, I believe, has much he can offer us. A wealth of information—he may not even yet realize all he knows—"

"Let me try to convince him, professor," Sirius said, with rising resolve. "I can get him to help us—to tell you what he knows—"

Dumbledore shook his head.

"Your brother undoubtedly admires your brashness and bravery—and he cares for you a great deal, but…" Sirius's face fell, this was a gigantic 'but', he could tell. "…It is your _parents_ that I believe are the key to gaining his cooperation."

"I don't understand—"

"Come now, Sirius—you are not naive." Dumbledore smiled, blandly. "He is impressionable, they are both imposing figures, and Regulus has held them in awe his entire life. If you and your mother give him conflicting advice, who do you think him more likely to obey?"

"My mother, of course," Sirius said, bitterly. "He'd listen to her bloody every time."

"Precisely." Dumbledore looked over at the door. "We have left the three of them alone in the sitting room—this very moment your parents are likely impressing upon Regulus how he ought to act and speak going forward, and you know he will want to please them in any way he can—"

"You're right—this was stupid of me—" Sirius started toward the door. "We shouldn't have left them alone with him—"

"Wait!"

Sirius froze with his hand on the doorknob and looked back.

"Your parents are not the only ones capable of plotting in earnest," Dumbledore said—and the smile he wore now had a decidedly steely quality. "It is just as well we are here, alone, Sirius—for I want to talk to you about your next mission for the Order."

He dropped his hand from the door and turned around, slowly.

"A mission?" he asked, quietly. "What mission?"

Dumbledore looked at him, long and hard, unsmiling. Anxiety and, more real to him, excitement started to rise in his chest.

"The most important one I have ever—perhaps will ever—give you."

Sirius's eyes lit up like a Christmas tree. He felt a rush, and with the promise of action, for a moment the young wizard forgot everything else—that his parents were in the next room with a still-half dead Regulus, about his fight with James, Lily's tiny baby, destined to be born in the middle of this whole mess. He had the heady hope of the fight, the thrill, the chase.

 _Glory._

"What is it?" he asked, eagerly—ready to leap out the back window if Dumbledore told him to. "Just tell me where I need to go."

Dumbledore nodded, almost imperceptibly, at the door to the other room.

The balloon in Sirius's chest burst.

"…Lily wasn't just having me on, was she?" he asked, in a flat voice. He had known, in his heart, that Lily would not have made that up—and James took so little pleasure in telling him, there was no real question that it was true.

But it was so much worse to hear from Dumbledore himself, when he was looking at Sirius in that dispassionate way that brooked no argument.

"I told you my plans were twofold, Sirius—in truth, the two parts are so reliant on one another, they might just as well be said to be one." Dumbledore paused, and to Sirius it seemed as though he was giving him a chance to prepare himself for what is coming. "I believe Regulus Black can help us, that his mother and father are the key to gaining his cooperation…" Dumbledore formulated the grand finale carefully. "…And that they, in their own right, could be very valuable."

"As _what_?" Sirius laughed, sourly. "What on earth could they do for us?"

But Dumbledore was not to be dissuaded, and his next words were more forceful.

"It does not take much imagination to see!" Dumbledore, said, impatiently. "Even among their own social set, in the very narrow, insular world of pure-blood English wizardry, your parents hold a privileged position. They operate at the highest echelon of society, and—moreover—are of such an old and prodigious family that they are effectively above suspicion, _beyond_ reproach."

"But what does—"

"There is a degree of arrogance in Voldemort's inner circle," Dumbledore continued, more urgently. "And behind doors—doors that would be open to your mother and father without question—plans are spoken of quite brazenly, Sirius. They, like your brother, likely already know much more than even _they_ are aware of."

Sirius had at last caught on to what Dumbledore was driving at, but the realization of what his scheme was did little to abate the younger man's fears that the greatest living wizard in the world was _certifiable_.

"Are you imagining—that they'll be _spies_?" Sirius asked, with utmost incredulity. "That they'll…report information about their friends' Death Eater children? Learn his movements over after-dinner port with their friends and parrot it back to you?"

"Of course not," the old man said, placidly. "They would be insulted and offended beyond words if I were to even suggest it."

"Then what—"

"This—" Dumbledore said, and now, improbably, he was smiling again. "—Is where _you_ come in."

"Me?" Sirius repeated, a sudden wave of dread and anxiety rising in him like bubbles in a cauldron. "What do you think I'm going to do?"

"Someone needs to act as liaison to the family on my behalf—" Dumbledore's eyes gleamed. "—And you are the natural choice."

Sirius's face had gone quite ashen.

"And that would entail—what, exactly?" Sirius heard himself say, though he did not feel his lips move or know when his brain had managed to formulate the words.

Dumbledore clasped his hands together in a businesslike, brisk manner.

"On a practical level, it will mean communicating everything necessary about his protection to your brother and parents…but on a personal level, and far more importantly—" The old wizard smiled. "It will mean engendering their trust."

Sirius's brow furrowed and he frowned.

"I am the person _least_ qualified to do that, Professor Dumbledore," he said, stonily, crossing his arms in front of his chest. "In fact, if you're trying to keep my mother and father happy, then the best course of action I can recommend is to get me as bloody far away from them as humanly possible."

"That is a reflection of your own feelings, Sirius—not your parents'," Dumbledore replied, smoothly, and instantly the young man's temper flared.

"There's no difference!" Sirius sneered, balling his fists. "They don't want to have anything to do with me and the feeling's completely mutual."

"Are you _so_ certain of that?"

Sirius stared up at the older man in utter bewilderment. What the hell was Dumbledore on about?

"Of course I am! Merlin, they disowned me—they chucked me out."

"I am loathe to correct you on this point, Sirius—but that is not what happened," Dumbledore said, quietly. "You ran away from home."

White-faced, he stared, uncomprehendingly for a moment, trying to think of a rejoinder—he fumbled for a refutation, couldn't think of one.

"Well, I mean—chucked out, ran away—"

"For a parent," Dumbledore interrupted him, gently. "You will find there is rather a large difference."

Sirius dropped his wand hand limply at his side.

"…You sound like my brother," he said, bitterly.

Sirius walked away from the door, past him and back to the window, suddenly desirous of getting as far away from Dumbledore as possible. He felt the old wizard's eyes on his back—the hair on his neck prickled.

"Regulus spoke to you about this?" he asked, with polite but sincere interest. Though he had his back to Dumbledore, Sirius still nodded. "What did he say?"

Sirius let out a sound that indicated how hard-done-by he felt.

"Oh, he was chewing me out over not being sweeter to her last night—" He twisted around and looked at Dumbledore directly. "—and then we got on the state of their 'poor hearts' after I left home, and finally he parroted some truly asinine opinions of my father's about my—mother and I."

He practically spat out the last words, then fidgeted with his jeans pockets and looked down at the floor. Dumbledore said nothing—apparently waiting for him to finish, and after a few seconds Sirius looked up again.

"He's—he's an idiot who's soft in the head. He doesn't have a _clue_ what they really are, that's why he's so _sentimental_ about them," he said, voice hard. "He's even fond of Kreacher, the foul little—"

"—You should not dismiss your brother's kindness to the elf," Dumbledore rebuked him, softly, but Sirius only huffed and rolled his eyes.

"Kreacher is an unctuous little toe-rag," he shot back, his voice scathing in the extreme. "Who is so devoted to my mother that I expect when she dies he will try to crawl in the coffin with her."

"Wizards have made him what he is, Sirius," Dumbledore said—and Sirius was surprised to hear a hint of anger in his voice. "He does what he is expected to do, and is a product of the attitudes of those around him—"

"And I suppose they are, too?" the young man said, furious at how unyielding Dumbledore was with him, when he was so soft on everyone else. "You'll be making that excuse for my parents, next!"

The silence in the room was punctuated by the sound of harsh breathing in and out. Sirius had not meant to shout, and now he was loathe to speak first, because he was ashamed of himself, especially because of the way Dumbledore looked at him now—with understanding.

"Unyielding, proud and difficult though they may be—" Dumbledore crossed the room to him again. "—You know they are not truly indifferent to you."

"I don't—"

"You wounded their pride immensely, Sirius—and I daresay your brother is right that you have hurt them."

"He's not—"

"Regulus _may_ be blind to the truth of what they are," Dumbledore said, quietly. "But so, I fear, are _you_."

Sirius felt a lump in his throat—he tried to swallow, to get rid of it, but it would not be dislodged.

"Your parents do not hate you, Sirius," Dumbledore continued, staring hard into the younger man's eyes—challengingly. "I believe you _wish_ they did, for it would make this all much easier for you—but alas, the workings of the human heart are rarely so simple."

Sirius bit down on his lip, blinked—but he could not seem to manage looking away.

"Whatever has happened between you, you have never stopped being their son." Dumbledore lowered his glasses, thoughtfully. "And to the impartial observer, it is blatantly obvious they missed you a great deal."

"Well, I haven't missed them," Sirius said, petulantly—and his ears burned at the fond, all too understanding smile it elicited. "What…is it you want me to do?"

"Oh—be yourself, I think," Dumbledore said, casually. "You're a resourceful wizard, I think the rest will fall into place soon enough."

Sirius stuck a finger in his ear and mimed digging out wax, as if he hadn't quite properly heard Dumbledore.

"Sorry—you think I should 'be myself'?" Dumbledore had pulled a pack of sweets out of his robes, and so missed his young friend the expression of profound disbelief. "That's exactly what they _don't_ want me to be!"

"I'm not so sure. You have much to recommend you, you know," Dumbledore held out a sweet to him which Sirius took, mindlessly, still gaping. "Unfortunate views aside, I would say, on the whole, your mother and father quite like the firstborn son they were given."

Sirius let out a sound like a scalded cat. Nothing the man was saying made sense— _like_ him? There was not a single thing about him they didn't hate!

"I'm sorry, professor—I don't understand you," he said, regaining control of his mind and body again (the tremor in his hand was gone.) "I'm really going to need more to go on than that—"

"I know it will not be easy," Dumbledore insisted, with a tad more force. "But I have every confidence in you. You _can_ do this."

"No, sir—I really don't think I can—"

"Then who will?" Dumbledore pushed, the iron back in his voice. "I have already sworn to your brother that no one else be told, I have precious few alternatives. Do you think Lily or Remus suited to the task?" The question was steeped in polite skepticism. "Would they be better at handling them than you?"

" _Anyone_ would be better at handling them than me!"

"I watched you deftly outmaneuver your father just now, Sirius," Dumbledore steamrolled over his protests. "You understand him—can disarm him quite naturally. Even if I had the whole Order at my disposal for this, you would still be the one I would ask to do it."

"The only thing I understand is how to annoy them," Sirius grumbled—but Dumbledore was fast losing his patience. The old man's word has become clipped, hurried—those of a general giving marching orders to his soldier, not a former professor speaking to a favorite pupil.

Dumbledore let out a long, rattling sigh and began to pace the kitchen.

"Consider our position! Neither one of us is blind to what they are—I need someone I can trust, who knows them, their ways and customs, how they are likely to act. You, in other words!" Sirius stepped backwards at the unexpected vehemence in Dumbledore's voice. "The pureblood son of a noble house—"

"Something I _never_ wanted to be—!"

"—But it is what you _are_ ," Dumbledore cut him off, dispassionately. "And it is what gives you such immense value. Beyond the protection I can provide their son—and they believe me to be such a soft-hearted fool that I will do that no matter what—you are _all_ I have to offer them."

He went white. Sirius had an odd feeling in the pit of his stomach at the way that Dumbledore had just described him—something he "had to offer."

As if he were a rare jewel to be bartered—or a poker chip.

"I'm not going to…to pretend to have mended my ways, and start spouting off pure-blood bilge just to please them," Sirius said, horrified and disgusted. "I'm not going to abandon my principles just to get scraps of information—"

"I did not ask you to—nor would I, as it would not work," the Headmaster replied, cooly—almost insulted. "Your parents are too clever and know you far too well to believe it. They would see at once that you were acting on my orders."

"Then what _exactly_ am I supposed to do?"

"Be kind and polite to them, for a start," Dumbledore said, walking back over to the door. "Let go of your open hostility."

The audience was drawing to a close—everything about Dumbledore's posture, tone, voice, spoke to the truth—that he, at least, thought there was very little left to say on this matter.

Sirius thought there was a great _fucking deal_ left to say.

"I am not _capable_ of letting go of my hostility towards them—"

"—Yes, you are!" Dumbledore snapped, rounding on him, angrily. "It is a defensive posture—one I suspect you have taken up to guard yourself against them!"

Sirius froze in shock, and Dumbledore kept speaking—now he sounded tired and weary—almost as weary as Sirius felt.

"I do not give you this task lightly. I know that it is difficult—that they have hurt you very badly." Dumbledore sighed. "That I still feel it necessary to ask it of you should give you an indication of how important the success of this mission is."

Sirius stared up at him, quietly, his expression distant and stony.

"What's—how would you recommend I _be kind to them_ , then?" He managed to infuse the words with a great deal of contempt.

"In small ways. It would not mean compromising your principles—" Dumbledore looked thoughtfully around the kitchen, searching for an example. "—If you were to, for example, take care to wear wizard clothing around them. That is what they are used to and comfortable with, after all. I rather like what you are wearing, myself—" He smiled at Sirius's Order teeshirt. "—But I can see how it might, erm, offend your mother's sensibilities."

Sirius took a forced, calming breath—but it did not have the desired effect.

"—Are you ordering me to wear robes to please my mother, sir?" he asked, his voice frigid.

"Of course not," Dumbledore said, pointedly ignoring Sirius's rudeness and that his shoulders were practically shaking with fury. "That was merely one suggestion."

Dumbledore put his hand on the doorknob and Sirius felt a wave of panicky desperation.

"I cannot do this, Professor Dumbledore!" Sirius pleaded. "I can't—I'm sorry, I don't—I can't—"

"You really think you're incapable of it?" Dumbledore asked, no pity in his voice. "You are not even willing to try?"

"I'll do anything else, sir—" Sirius walked over to him, forced himself to look Dumbledore in the eye, make him see what a bad idea this was. "You know I would do anything—"

"—Except the one thing I have asked you to." Dumbledore paused and considered him, and even before he spoke Sirius felt very small. "When you joined the Order of the Phoenix, you told me that you would take any mission I gave you without question."

"I did, but—"

"Forgive me…perhaps when you made that vow to me, you believed the only missions I would send you on involved dueling five Death Eaters at once."

The accusation was clear and stung Sirius badly; he instantly lashed out.

"I didn't think you'd be asking me to offer myself up as a human sacrifice to a pair of _bloodsuckers_!"

His savage angry words hung in the air between them.

"Is that truly what you think this task is tantamount to?" Dumbledore asked, calmly.

Sirius only glared at him, his jaw rigid, heart pounding wildly fast.

"I cannot force you to do it, of course. The choice is—and always has been—your own. I had only hoped you would make a different one."

Every word dripped with Dumbledore's deep and profound disappointment.

"Sir…" he protested, weakly—he could not stand the way Dumbledore was looking at him, with a mixture of pity and regret. It reminded him, uncomfortably, of the way his headmaster had looked the night Sirius had almost been expelled. "I don't…"

"Listen to me, Sirius. What your brother did took all the strength and bravery he could muster, and he nearly died for it."

The old man stepped very closely to Sirius—now staring at the floor—and touched him gently on the shoulder. The boy looked up, eyes wide.

"Like you, he did not have to. You have both chosen to defy Voldemort, in spite of what you are. Regulus did not allow his prejudices to blind him to evil, or what needed to be done." Sirius's lip trembled. "I would hate—for you to allow yours to blind _you_."

Sirius did not think there was a single thing that Dumbledore could have said to him in that moment that could have wounded him more deeply than _that._ He blinked away—something in his eyes, stared down at the wand in his hand, then back at the door to the sitting room.

The old wizard was looking right through him, and the feeling of misery and shame he felt at having let him down hurt almost as much as his wounded pride.

He let out the longest sigh of his life.

"…I'll do it."


	5. Part Five

_"Kreacher tried everything, everything he knew, but nothing, nothing would work. . . . Kreacher failed to obey orders, Kreacher could not destroy the locket! And his Mistress was mad with grief, because Master Regulus had disappeared, and Kreacher could not tell her what had happened, no, because Master Regulus had f-f-forbidden him to tell any of the f-f-family what happened in the c-cave. . . ."_

 _-J.K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Deathly Hollows_

 **PART FIVE**

When Sirius and Dumbledore walked back into the room, the expression the latter wore was so bland that one would have never guessed they had had so much as a minor disagreement. Dumbledore greeted each of the remaining family members—Regulus on the sofa, the parents still dutifully at his side, exactly where they had been when he left the room—with a polite nod, akin to that of a banker or waiter.

Sirius trailed in after him, looking, for lack of a better descriptor, shell-shocked. His appearance stood in direct contrast to Dumbledore's: face still chalky white, he lingered by the door and avoided meeting anyone's eyes—though the young man could feel the familiar burn on his cheek that meant his mother was looking at him.

"Well—that's all sorted out," Dumbledore broke the silence, casually, with the air of one talking about the weather. "I apologize for keeping you waiting, but the matter, as Sirius said, really could not wait. Now—where were we?"

Orion and Walburga Black did not trust his airy tone one jot. Their eyes glittered with suspicion, and husband and wife exchanged looks—apparently agreeing, silently, to drop the matter.

At least for the present.

"What's to be done with the boy—" Orion indicated towards Regulus, brusquely.

"Ah, yes! Regulus." Dumbledore turned his kindly eyes to the younger Black, who was watching his brother with frank concern. "A decision must be made about where you are to hide."

Regulus blinked and looked away from Sirius and at Dumbledore—now kneeling at his bedside—surprised.

"Where? But I thought—" He cut himself off, face flushed.

Dumbledore's eyes twinkled, knowingly.

"Well—there are options." Dumbledore straightened up again. "I have a safe house in Scotland, deep in the highlands—not far from Hogwarts, in fact. Every enchantment possible would be put on it to hide your presence, and of course, safe apparition points for your family to come and visit you. And naturally, a member of the Order of the Phoenix will always be there as well."

"Oh," Regulus said, quietly. "I suppose that would be…fine."

He looked furtively up at his brother (pointedly looking in the other direction), than back down at the blanket in his lap.

Dumbledore very quickly read the situation and smiled.

"I have another idea that might be more to your taste," Dumbledore stroked his beard, thoughtfully. "Instead of hiding in some remote glen—why not stay here, with your brother?"

In the corner, Sirius twitched.

"Yes, I think this will do quite nicely, actually…It will be just as easy to fortify." Dumbledore looked around the dirty living room, casually appraising its enchantability. "And it is, of course, _far_ more conveniently located for your parents—and for Sirius, who will be doing the lion's share of watching over you, anyway."

There was another jerky, twitching movement near the door.

"So…" Dumbledore smiled encouragingly at him. "What would you prefer, Regulus?"

Regulus's eyes darted between his parents and his punch-drunk brother.

"…I think I would rather stay here," he said, voice small and directed towards the carpet.

"Excellent!" Dumbledore clasped his hands together. "Then we have only to ask your brother. Sirius—" Dumbledore turned around to look at the elder. "—Do you have any objections to having your brother as a semi-permanent houseguest?"

Everyone in the room turned to look at him. Sirius opened his mouth—at first no sound came out.

"None whatsoever," he finally managed to get out, weakly.

"Well, I think it's probably for the best." Dumbledore turned 'round towards the parents. "In the unlikely event they should realize that Regulus's absence is anything out of the ordinary, this is the last place they will look for him."

"Why…why would you say that?" Regulus asked, still trying in vain to catch Sirius's eyes.

"Your brother's public estrangement from the family makes an excellent cover."

To this, none of the Blacks said anything.

"Well—I think that is quite enough talking for the present. Orion, Mrs. Black—" He walked over to them. "I am at your disposal—you know how to reach me for things more urgent than an owl, when you return to Grimmauld Place we can sort out the finer details. Though I suspect you'll wish to stay here for the rest of the day?"

Walburga nodded, sharply. Sirius made a discomforted noise in the corner.

"Then I will leave you all to talk things over as a family. Sirius—" Dumbledore turned and addressed his protégé again. Sirius's blank expression had morphed into a positively mutinous glower. "You can explain everything else, I think."

" _Perfectly_."

Dumbledore ignored the venomous sarcasm, though there was a tiny bit of warning in his eyes.

"And, naturally, while your brother is convalescing—"

"—My home is _their_ home," Sirius finished, through gritted teeth. He sounded as though every word had to be forcibly pried from his mouth.

"Splendid! I'll leave you to it, then."

And with a simple bow, Dumbledore left the Black Family to their own devices once more.

The silence after Albus Dumbledore left the four Blacks alone in Sirius's living room was protracted and excruciating for all parties. Every member of the family seemed to be wondering who would break it, for whatever was said next would be the great demarcation marker between the old era of their lives and this new, great unknown. No one would forget the first words said.

"Well," said Sirius, sticking his hands in his pockets again. "This is a real pisser."

"Sirius—"

"Do _not_ speak to me," Sirius hissed, venomously, rounding on the younger boy. "Or you'll wish you were back with the Inferi."

Regulus blushed and shrank back, then shot a pensive look in his parents' direction. They did not chastise his brother for being rude—they only watched him with carefully guarded expressions, as one does a wild beast that might attack at any moment.

"Right. Well—" Sirius crossed the room towards them, trying to affect studied nonchalance. He crossed his arms in front of his chest in a slightly insolent way that he knew would annoy them both. "—I think we can all agree that it's been a rather long day with a lot of unpleasantness." No one agreed or replied. He continued, unabated, "So—I figure we just get this bit out of the way—"

" _Sirius_ —!"

"—You'll want to visit Reg—" Sirius said loudly, drowning out his brother. "Fine. Great. If you just give me all the times and dates you want to come see him, I'll clear off so you don't have to see _me._ And everyone will be as happy as can be expected, given the circumstances."

His parents kept silent watching him. They wore identical, extremely shrewd looks that he tried to ignore.

"So—those terms being suitable for all concerned—"

"They are _not_ suitable."

Sirius blinked slowly in his mother's direction. She was still staring at him, fixedly, but there was a fresh resolve in her eyes.

"Pardon—me?"

"I do not agree to those terms, Sirius Orion," his mother said, smoothly. "And nor does your father."

Sirius blinked a few more times, then turned to Regulus, who was staring up at them all with acute discomfort.

"Regulus," he said, forcing himself to be patient. "Can you please explain to _your_ mother, for me, that I am attempting to make her life as comfortable and happy as I am able in this trying time?"

His younger brother winced and looked up at his mother, silently pleading with her not to be angry—but she was not looking at him. Her eyes remained fixed on her firstborn, and Mrs. Black was now studying him very carefully. Behind her cool gray irises there was something that set warning alarms flashing in Sirius's head, for he recognized it at once.

Triumph.

Defiantly, he glared back at her. Walburga only raised an eyebrow in amusement, her lips curling upward in knowing self-satisfaction.

It had the intended effect, for his glare faltered—and he became visibly unnerved.

"Well…no one seems to want to say anything else at present," Sirius said, forcibly dragging his eyes away from hers. "Totally understandable, frankly…so I think I will go lie down and—"

" _Do not_ ," his mother said, in her softest and most deadly voice. "Take one step towards that door, Sirius Orion Black."

One foot in the air, Sirius froze.

"So—you _do_ have things to say, then," he said, cooly. He put his foot back down very slowly—trying hard not to wobble as he did so, and thus preserve his dignity.

It nearly worked, except his legs were very weak from lack of food, so Sirius found it impossible to keep them from shaking altogether.

"Come here," his mother continued, in the same silky voice. "And sit down next to your brother— _please_."

The use of the word 'please' did more to increase his anxiety than anything else—but Sirius's mind had gone blank, so he did the only thing that he could think to.

He walked over to the sofa and sat down at the end, next to Reg's feet.

"So—I take it from your silence that you don't much care for my proposal."

Regulus had pulled his legs up slightly when his brother sat down, and anxiously tried to catch his eye. Sirius, master of stonewalling, slouched back in his seat and pretended he wasn't there.

"Are you truly such an officious dullard," Walburga asked, mildly scathing. "That you believe there was the slightest possibility I would?"

Sirius gritted his teeth and bit back a sharp retort.

"Well, then—" Sirius waved his arms around vaguely. "What do you have in mind?"

She gazed down at her son, still wearing that disquieting expression that made his skin itch.

"I haven't decided," she said, at last.

Sirius frowned in confusion and turned, at last, to look at his brother—curious if the younger boy had any insights into this bizarre statement. Regulus was clearly just as perturbed as he was.

"What do you mean, 'you haven't decided'?" he repeated, turning back in her direction.

"I mean that—" She sniffed, airily. "I'm still mulling it over. Considering what's best."

Sirius scrunched up his face.

"So are we all just going to sit here waiting for you to finish _pondering_?"

"Oh, I don't think so," she informed him, her tone brisk. "I think your father and I will talk it over in a little while, and then we'll come back and tell you both how things are going to be."

She said this so matter-of-factly, so casually, that it took Sirius the better part of five seconds to fully process it—and when he did, the young wizard let out a strangled half-laugh.

"Are you—"

He looked up at her and the rest of the sentence was choked out of him.

He had remembered.

He _knew_ where he had seen that look before. It was in a book of medieval fairy tales that he had loved as a child—brightly illustrated, some of the pictures of witches and wizards caught in daring fights with creatures were positively grisly. Sirius the boy had liked to flip through it in the dark, the dull light of the gas lamp casting flickering shadows on the wall of his bedroom.

She was just like a picture from…from that story…

Giddily, Sirius groped about in his mind, trying to remember the essentials of it…there had been something about a wizard (he was vain, wasn't he?) trying to steal gold from a terrible monster to impress a Muggle girl in his village. The tale had clearly been written to warn pureblood children about the dangers of mixing blood, for once the foolish wizard managed to steal the gold and bring it back to the girl, the beast, incensed at its precious hoard being taken for such an unworthy cause, had unleashed wrath upon the land, breathing magical fire that killed all living things for a hundred miles.

The picture that accompanied that story had been his favorite. He could see it in his mind's eye perfectly—and she….

His mother was looking at him in precisely the same way that the beautiful dragon gazed covetously at her enormous pile of blood-stained, recovered treasure.

A series of panicky thoughts began to run through Sirius's head—It was not _that…_ it couldn't be. It was literally impossible for _that_ to happen, so why could he not shake the feeling that—

 _Why was she looking at him him like that?_

But then—with a jolt of relief rather like having a bucket of cold water thrown over one on a hot summer day—he remembered who it was that stood next to her. Just as quickly as it had come, the panic receded.

His eyes slid past her and onto him, half a step back to her right—silently watching the proceedings, as he often did.

Orion Black.

His father wasn't looking at him like that. _His father_ was a bastion of cold rationality, entirely unsentimental and completely and utterly fixed in his belief of the Right and Wrong way to do _everything_. Orion could be appealed to, reasoned with.

Orion would never let _that_ happen.

Sirius stood up straighter and squared his shoulders.

"Sir—I need to have a private conversation with you," he said, calmly. "Man-to-man."

Orion raised an eyebrow at his older son. Walburga lost her dragon-like expression, her face assuming a more typical haughty annoyance. Regulus fidgeted on the couch.

"What about?" Mr. Black asked, warily, looking at his older son with vague interest.

"It's a matter of family business," Sirius replied, cooly. "And it's rather important."

"There is nothing you have to say that cannot be said in front of the two of us," his mother cut in, waspishly. Sirius slowly turned his head towards her—a near perfect imitation of his father.

"Two men have the right to a private conversation, don't they?" her son asked, in an unusually pompous voice. "And anyway, last time I checked, _he_ was head of the family, not you."

He rounded off this statement with a haughty half-shrug. His mother narrowed her eyes, incensed.

"I _thought_ that was how things were done, anyway," Sirius drawled at his father—aware that he was possibly overselling this but enjoying it all the same. "You haven't started letting the women interfere since I left, have you?"

"Don't talk about Mother like that!" Regulus said from the sofa, hotly. Sirius ignored him, kept his eyes fixed on his father, taking care to avoid even glancing at the quietly fuming witch next to Orion.

"And this is very important, is it, boy?" Orion asked, mildly—and he put one hand on his wife's wand arm to placate her.

"Just very minor point I wanted to clear up—won't take long at all, old boy," Sirius replied, smoothly.

The 'old boy' had very clearly been too much, if his father's narrowed eyes were anything to go by, but when his wife opened her mouth to let loose a string of sharp retorts, Mr. Black actually held up his hand to silence her.

"Very well," he said, shortly. Walburga threw her husband an angry, _are-you-seriously-going-to-humor-him?_ look. Regulus put his legs down on the floor and tried, weakly, to stand up—with little success. "Lead the way."

Even wearing James's borrowed jeans and the t-shirt emblazoned with a print image of a fiery phoenix, it was rather astounding how like each other father and son looked, just then—identical aristocratic, haughty expressions, the exact same posture and manner, only half an inch difference in height.

The only thing that betrayed how much effort Sirius was exerting was the slight tremble of his shoulders. If he noticed, Orion did his eldest son the courtesy of not remarking on it—Mr. Black merely returned his look with vague curiosity.

Without even bothering to throw his mother and younger brother a final withering glance, Sirius strode out of the room, Mr. Black following close behind. Orion trailed him as he walked through the kitchen, into the hallway, past the lavatory and bedroom door and to a grubby window—the dirtiest of the lot, it looked as though it hadn't been cleaned in decades—in the very back of the flat.

Orion squinted in astonishment as his elder son wrenched the tiny window open as wide as it could go.

"What in Salazar's name—" He watched his son experimentally throw a leg through the opening, apparently trying to squeeze through it. He got stuck in a matter of seconds, and so, annoyed, Sirius stepped back out, waved his wand, and the opening widened enough for a grown man to comfortable fit through it. Orion was even more astonished when the boy jumped up on the sill.

"—Where do you think you're going?"

"Out the window, what does it look like?" Sirius said over his shoulder—and then he leapt.

Astonished, Orion hurtled over to the window and stuck his head out the opening of the building. On instinct he looked down, and there he found his son, standing on an odd little metal platform a few feet directly below. The boy grinned up at him like a cheeky monkey.

Mr. Black scowled down.

"We won't be bothered, here," Sirius said, suppressing a laugh at his father's expression. "Come on down."

"What in blazes are you standing on, boy?" Orion asked, staring down at the metal platform with deep suspicion. The sun was peaking out again, at least, but the grate on which his son stood was still slick with rain.

"It's a fire escape," Sirius said, unhelpfully. "Muggles use them to—"

"—I can guess," his father interrupted, voice heavy with irony. He stared at his eldest in an accusatory fashion for a moment longer, than pulled out his wand, and with an elegant twirl, floated out of the window and landed solidly next to him.

Sirius watched Mr. Black examine his surroundings with restrained distaste. Across the alley was the brick wall of an old factory that had been bombed out in the war. Derelict except for squatters, it had no windows on this side from which prying Muggles could peer out and spy on them, which is why Sirius had thought of here as a place to talk. Now that—by some miracle—he had actually gotten Orion out on the fire escape, though, he rather fancied the thought of the neighboring tramps goggling at the two of them.

He thought of what he would say if that happened gave Sirius an odd surge of affection for his father, and he smiled. One thing you could say for Orion: he could be relied on, even if it was only to be in a constant state of irritation.

"What do you think?" Sirius asked, cheerily. He hopped up on the metal railing and perched there, demeanor all bold insolence. "Not even _she'd_ dare follow us out here."

Expressionless, Mr. Black watched him swing his legs back and forth.

"Like playing with fire, don't you, boy?"

Sirius could not resist grinning at him.

"What I said was the truth—" he replied, voice turning a tad malicious. "And anyway, did you see the look on her face?"

"I hope your amusement was worth it," his father replied, shrugging. "She's going to make you pay for that."

Sirius leaned backwards off the metal railing, as if to show that he feared nothing. This display very clearly bored Orion.

"What _else_ could she possibly do?"

Mr. Black took a very small step towards his son—perhaps because of how small the platform was, or how high up they were—the action had the effect of being rather more intimidating than it might've been. Sirius shivered.

"Take it from me," Orion said, calmly, bending over and looking Sirius directly in the eyes. "It can _always_ be worse."

"A hard-earned lesson from a quarter-century of marriage," his son replied, sliding back down into a standing position and scowling.

"Enough," Mr. Black said, coldly. "You didn't drag me out here to insult your mother—you'd have taken great pleasure in doing _that_ to her face."

Sirius pushed off the metal railing of the fire escape and put his hands at his sides, assuming the same straight-backed demeanor as his father again.

"No," he said, in a tight voice, his face as smooth and expressionless as he could make it. "I didn't."

"I must admit, when you said it was a matter of 'family business'—" Orion lifted his left hand and carelessly studied the heavy gold crest ring he wore on his index finger. "I was curious."

"Yeah, it won't take long," Sirius said, bluntly. "I just needed to clarify your position."

"My position on what?" Orion said, still twisting the ring about his finger—though Sirius could not miss the way his eyes slyly glanced up to gauge his elder son's reaction to being dismissed.

"On me."

His father blinked slowly.

"My 'position', as such," Mr. Black said, after weighing the question thoughtfully for a moment. "Is that you are unbearably impudent and it was a _colossal_ mistake to indulge you by coming out here."

Sirius's face flushed, but he refused to rise to the bait of this taunt.

"I was thinking a _bit_ broader than what's going through your head at this exact moment, actually."

Orion lowered his hand and considered his son for a moment, face inscrutable.

"I'm not certain I know what you're driving at."

"You know _exactly_ what I'm driving at!" Sirius growled, all attempts at controlling his temper forgotten. His father rarely lost his cool, unruffable demeanor in conversations where it mattered—for someone with the gunpowder temper of his elder son, this trait was vexing in the extreme.

"Do I?" Orion asked, haughtily. "It _is_ possible you're not making your meaning plain."

"I'm trying to figure out where I stand with you," Sirius snapped—his father's constant misdirection was so irritating—why couldn't he just be straightforward? "And you're giving me the runaround like it's a game of verbal _piquet."_

"You want to know where you… _stand_ with me _?_ " Orion repeated the phrase, slowly.

Now, at last, they seemed to be coming to the point—and there was a flash of insight behind Mr. Black's gray eyes where there hadn't been before. Sirius, too focused on his exasperation, missed this.

"Yes!" he replied, rolling his eyes. _Obviously!_

"I see…" Orion nodded, and he tilted his head, apparently thinking the matter over carefully. Sirius fidgeted. "And my position matters to you in—which capacity?"

"As head of the Black family," Sirius bit out.

"If this is a question of urgency for you," Orion said, casually. "Then you must think there is some reason for your situation to be—unclear."

"I don't," he said, too quickly—and his father's eyebrows rose in mock-surprise. "But…the idea has been suggested to me by…others."

"And that was—concerning to you, was it?"

"Extremely," his son said, through gritted teeth.

"So you then felt the matter worthy of an immediate investigation—" Mr. Black continued, putting all the facts together rather tidily. "To, settle this point, so to speak?"

"I just want to make sure nothing's changed!"

Unfortunately for Sirius, his father—a man of shrewd observational skill—caught the trace of anxiety that his older son had been hoping, from the start of this audience, very much to avoid.

This mistake would prove costly.

"Ah. I think I see, now—" Orion drawled, in a quiet voice. "—Where the confusion lies."

"Great! Then you'll have no trouble clearing it up for me," said Sirius. He had unconsciously shuffled closer to his father and was staring up at Orion with an intensity bordering on desperation.

If Mr. Black knew that he had his elder son on the hook, so to speak, he was not so ill-bred as to let it show. Indeed, all outward appearances suggested that this matter was only interesting to him in that he couldn't quite see why Sirius cared so much.

After a torturously long moment, Orion cleared his throat, and Sirius straightened up eagerly.

"None whatsoever. Allow me to inform you—" Orion paused, for effect. "—That as regards your position in this family, nothing has changed."

The smile Sirius broke into was wide and relieved—Mr. Black might as well have said that Christmas wasn't canceled after all.

"Excellent! Great…that's great news," he laughed, practically collapsing on the metal bannister behind him. "I didn't…seriously think it had, but—you've taken _such_ a load off my mind."

Orion's eyes glittered in a manner eerily reminiscent of his wife.

"I am happy to have done so," he said, in a personable and businesslike tone. "Was that all?"

"Yes!" Sirius smiled up at him in an extremely fond manner which his father did not return. _His_ expression remained inscrutable, but his son was so obviously elated that he didn't notice. "That was it, that's all! I'm so glad—you're ace, Dad!"

This 'compliment' went unacknowledged, and when Sirius clapped him on the shoulder cheerily and slipped past his father, the older man made no move to follow him. With a new bounce in his step, humming under his breath, the young wizard climbed up on the railing on the other side of him and made a motion to pull himself up onto the windowsill.

"—I _do_ feel compelled to clarify something myself."

In a single gust, an icy blast of north wind seemed to blow over the budding spring flowers of Sirius's mood. He hopped back down off the railing and turned, very slowly, to face his father.

Mr. Black had folded his arms behind his back and was now looking at Sirius in what seemed to his son to be an ominously proprietary manner.

"What d'you mean…?" he asked, slowly.

"Well, all this talk of 'change in status'—" Orion drawled, thoughtfully. "I'm loathe to attribute anything to you that you haven't outright said, but I get the impression you think there's been one."

"You just told me there hasn't been," Sirius said, keenly aware of the nervousness in his voice.

"Yes, and I rather think from your reaction that you misunderstood me."

"What—what is there to misunderstand?" Sirius asked, decidedly panicky now. "You were very, very clear—"

"I wasn't, obviously," Orion said, with mild regret. "You see, when I said 'nothing has changed'—what I meant was nothing has _ever_ changed."

Sirius's face froze in surprise—for just a moment, and then it unfroze again and he smiled.

"'Nothing has ever changed'?" he repeated, smirking at his father, rather like he had recalling Orion's cutting comments about Lucius Malfoy. "Right. Except, you know—three years ago, obviously."

"What are you under the impression happened three years ago?" Mr. Black asked, calmly.

The laughter on Sirius's face instantly died. He had known Orion to do many things, but playing stupid was not one of them, and if his father was asking him to say aloud something so painfully obvious, it boded extremely ill.

"Only me running away from home and being disinherited," Sirius said, uneasily, folding his arms in front of his chest. "Just that minor detail."

"Have you corresponded with Belgravius Burke in the past three years, by chance?"

At this seemingly apropos of nothing question about the Black family's ancient solicitor, Sirius frowned, more confused than ever.

"No—of course not!" he said, fiddling nervously with his wand, spinning it around in his fingers like a drumstick. "Why would I be getting owls from that walking corpse?"

"I am only attempting to understand where this absurd notion of your being disinherited has come from," his father answered, patiently.

Sirius's wand flew out of his hand and clattered onto the metal grating of the fire escape.

" _Shit_ —!"

But before he could even make a move to dive for it, Orion had plucked the wand up from the spot where it rolled, conveniently, next to his foot. Sirius watched his father examine it thoughtfully.

He made no move to hand it back to his son.

"That was rather careless of you," Mr. Black remarked, glancing from the wand to Sirius—who now looked very, _very_ young.

"Give—give it back," Sirius stammered.

"In a minute."

"Come on, Dad, this isn't funny—"

"I'll give it back to you when we're done," his father cut over him, smoothly, and he slipped Sirius's wand into an interior pocket in his robes with a careless shrug. "This conversation has become rather interesting to me."

Sirius had a sudden lurch of vertigo and had to grip the railing. He was now unarmed and effectively trapped on a fire escape with an extremely powerful wizard, and Orion was no longer watching him with bored disinterest. Far from it—the expression on his father's face could best be described as hard and steely, and with his own wand in hand, there was a rather menacing quality to the Black patriarch that had up until now been absent.

Sirius felt his knees wobble. He was beginning to severely regret everything about this.

"H-has it?" he asked, trying to keep his voice steady, feeling that he was as much metaphorically up against a wall as he was literally.

"How long have you thought that you were disinherited?" Orion asked, completely ignoring that his son looked like he was about to faint.

Sirius glanced from the wand in his father's hand to his face. Mr. Black's tone was light, casual, to an outward observer it might even have seemed pleasant. He knew better. Up until now Orion had been toying with him.

He wasn't anymore.

"The whole time," Sirius answered, weakly—honesty seemed the safest course, here. "Since the night I ran out."

"Hm. I see." Orion narrowed his eyes, perhaps assessing whether there was a possibility his son was lying to him. "And _why_ did you think it?"

At this question, Sirius's brashness overrode his instinctual fear, and he let out a undignified snort of disbelief.

"Why?" he repeated, incredulous. "Do I—do I have to spell it out for you?"

"I suppose you do," his father assured him, coldly.

"Because I ran away, of course!"

Mr. Black folded his arms behind his back again and looked down at his son, slouching against the wall, struggling to stay upright and staring at him in astonishment that this even needed to be said. Orion gave him a hard, long look.

"That's not…an unreasonable assumption," he admitted, quietly, after a moment.

"Assumption—"

"—But that's all it is," Mr. Black, continued, still in his quiet, reserved manner, dangerously calm. "An assumption. In this case—a false one."

"What are you going on about?" Sirius demanded. His legs were trembling—whether it was from the chill or his hunger or his nerves, the young man no longer cared, for the expression of thinly disguised triumph on his father's face had drowned out everything else.

"Allow _me_ —" He took a step forward and Sirius pressed himself back against the wall. "To spell something out for _you_."

Orion's face was very close to his now, his hard eyes boring into his young son's. Sirius's mouth felt dry, he tried to swallow and found himself not quite up to it.

"As my eldest son, from the day you were born—" his father said, slowly, as if explaining to a particularly dull-witted child. "—You have been the heir apparent of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, and since that day, you have been set to inherit the entire estate upon my death. That has _never changed_. Are you in full understanding of the situation, now?"

"No…" Sirius said, in a weak voice. His heart was beating as fast as a rabbit's.

"Well, I don't think it's possible for me to make it any clearer," Orion replied, coldly, stepping back again. "Short of dragging my will out of the family vault and showing it to you."

"That's what I want you to do."

Mr. Black blinked.

"Pardon me?"

"I won't believe it—" Sirius said, straightening up again, feeling another rush of dumb courage, which always kicked in when he was well and truly terrified. "Until I see the parchment in front of me."

"You have the impudence to demand to see _my_ will?" his father asked, raising both eyebrows in astonishment—though he actually seemed a little amused at the nerve of his older son, so clearly cornered. "Why would I indulge you in that?"

"I knew it!" Sirius's smile was grim. "I _knew_ you were lying. I did not believe for a _second_ —" He boldly stepped forward, eye-to-eye with his father. "—that you hadn't changed it."

Orion studied him calmly, rather like a cat would a vole or shrew—something so small it might've not been worth the effort of hunting.

"What makes you so sure?" he asked, genuinely curious.

"Because I _know_ you—you wouldn't let something that important go unattended for this long. The matter of succession? No bloody way!" Sirius declared, confident surety in every word. "I bet you had the papers drawn up the day after I walked out of that house."

Orion was back to looking at his ring.

"Your faith in my commitment to my duty is very flattering," he remarked, lightly. "But entirely misplaced."

"The management of the affairs of the Black family is your _life_ ," Sirius said, in an over eager voice. In his excitement he seemed to have forgotten he had no wand. "The idea that you would overlook something _this_ important—"

"—You really won't believe me until you see the will?" his father interrupted. Sirius twitched in confusion.

"That's what I—"

"Very well." Mr. Black reached into his robes—for a split second Sirius thought he was reaching in for the wand he had pilfered. He was disappointed, for instead his father pulled out a small black datebook—he had carried one for as long as Sirius could remember—and he flipped through it. Sirius, perplexed, watched him turn to a page and study it for a moment.

"It's Wednesday today…how does Friday look?"

Orion looked up, attentively.

"For…what?" Sirius asked, confused.

"As a day to meet, so that I can prove it to you," his father said, nonchalantly. "I would say tomorrow, but I will need to get your grandfather's permission to retrieve it from the family vault—a mere formality, of course, but one that should be observed—"

Sirius leaned back against the brick wall of his apartment and actually slid down into a sitting position.

"—I would say we meet in my study at Grimmauld Place, but given the current climate and our present, rather awkward situation, it might raise some questions if anyone in the family were to call while you were there. What would you prefer?" Orion asked, casually looking down at the huddled boy at his feet. "A pub? A cafe? A—chip shop? Or would a bordello be more to your taste?"

Sirius, dazed, didn't even flinch at this cutting sarcasm.

"You really—" He hugged his knees and stared up at his father, white-faced. "—you really didn't change it."

"Of _course_ I didn't, you stupid boy," Mr. Black snapped, irritably—and Sirius flinched. "Why would I _make up_ such a story? Do you think I'm _proud_ of such a profound oversight in the management of my own affairs?"

Sirius's temper spiked again.

"So what you're saying is you _meant to change your will_ —" Sirius said, every word infused with utter incensed disbelief. "—But you just—what, haven't gotten around to it, yet? You haven't _bothered_?"

"Succinctly put—and regrettably true," his father said, mild self-reproach in his voice. Sirius gaped. "Though in my defense, it's a rather complicated matter."

"What the hell is complicated about _disowning someone_?" Sirius scrambled up to his feet again, clearly furious. "You do it in this family all the time. Andromeda was out about two hours after she left!"

"That was your uncle's affair," Orion said, coldly. "And your cousin's situation isn't the same as yours."

"Why wouldn't it be?"

"What part of what just I told you did you fail to grasp?" his father asked, sharply. "Disinheriting an eldest son and _heir_ is not the same thing as disowning a middle daughter from a secondary branch."

Sirius bit his lip so hard he thought it might bleed.

"If you had ever paid the slightest bit of attention to your lessons as a child," Orion continued, in a placid voice. "You would know that the Black family estate is, by tradition, entailed upon the male line, and the succession has been in place and unbroken for nine centuries. It is no small thing to undo magic of this kind." Sirius stared up at him in mute horror. "There's no precedent for what you did."

"What do you mean, 'no precedent'?" Sirius stammered.

"You have always contended that this family lacks imagination," Mr. Black said, grimly. "I suppose this is just one more example you can chock up to that. No one ever _imagined_ —" He put a delicate stress on the word. "—That the heir apparent of this family would _have_ to be disinherited."

"There was no contingency for this—" His father tilted his head in casual assent. "So it, what—it can't be changed?"

"Don't be a dullard, of course it can be changed," Orion replied, sharply. "But your great-great-grandfather set the enchantments on the current entailment, and he made it very difficult—difficult, but not impossible—to undo them."

Not for the first time, Sirius bit back a curse at Phineas Nigellus.

"So why haven't you? It's been three years—and it's not as though you have anything better to do!" Sirius yelped, and he made his indignance clear by flapping his arms about. "It's not like you…have a _job_ that's been keeping you too busy to fix this!"

Orion shrugged—his interest in the conversation appeared to be coming to an end.

"Well, it _was_ a while ago—who knows what I was thinking?" the wizard asked, circumspectly. "Perhaps I had it in my head I would wait until my father died. It's all very tedious and a bit of a bore—"

"No."

Orion very slowly put his pocket book back into his robes and looked his son in the eye.

"'No'?" he repeated, softly.

"You heard me!" Sirius growled, balling his hands into fists. "I want this resolved now—today, I don't care where—bring Burke and granddad, whoever needs to be there, and—I want you to change it—I want _to watch you_."

Orion took his eldest son's fairly ridiculous demand quite calmly.

"This is your primary concern in this moment?" Mr. Black asked, with the air of humoring a child having a tantrum. "Your brother has nearly died, is now living under threat of death—and you're concerned about a matter of inheritance that may not affect you for decades? So much so that you have the presumption to demand it be resolved— _today_?"

A cold gust of wind followed his father's question.

"What is this _really_ about?" Orion asked, still calmly—eyes glittering like a snake's.

"It's…it's—" Sirius struggled, his brain seemed to have stopped working properly about an hour ago. "It's—just the principle of the thing."

His father's eyes narrowed.

"You're an abysmal liar and you always have been," Orion drawled. "You needn't bother with me, it's as plain as the nose on your face what's really got you squirming."

"I don't know what you're talking about—"

"It's your _mother_ ," Mr. Black cut him off, bluntly—and Sirius's face turned even more ashen. "You're afraid of her. You think she's got _designs_ —"

"I am _not_ afraid _—_!"

"—You're petrified that once she learns of my unfortunate oversight she'll turn it to her advantage. That's what has you so damn worked up, you whelp—as well it ought to," his father finished, with a slightly malicious smile.

"What does _that_ mean?"

"If you have some damned foolish notion that your mother has plans for you, why don't you ask her yourself? Unless—" Orion leaned forward again—his face less than a foot from his son's. "—Unless you brought me out here on that _idiotic pretense_ because you labor under the _supreme delusion_ you can enlist my aid in being rid of her."

Sirius was too stunned to answer. In a matter of seconds his father had completely, cuttingly exposed him—Orion had clearly known the entire time what his eldest son was after, and Dumbledore had been right when he had said that the notion of being used was deeply offensive to the Black Patriarch.

Mr. Black grabbed Sirius by the chin and forced him to look his father in the eye.

"Listen well, because I'm only going to say this one more time," Orion hissed, softly. "I have no intention of changing my will. I may in the future—I may not. I owe you no explanation for _any_ of my decisions. And as for your supposed 'disownment'—" he lingered on the word with distaste. "—It means _nothing_ from a legal perspective, and is entirely a personal matter between yourself and your mother."

"What about you?" Sirius whispered, his voice harsh.

"I?" Orion repeated, quietly—and he let go of Sirius and stepped back again, disdain evident. "I find I really couldn't care _less_ what you do. You have made your contempt for this family abundantly clear—what use are you to me?"

The answer—the one he would have gladly heard an hour before—was like a blow to the face. Sirius stopped breathing for a second, felt his insides twist at the unexpected hurt that his father's cold dismissal had caused him, made ten times worse by the almost savage pleasure Mr. Black seemed to be taking in it.

Anger was hot on the heels of hurt, and he began to shake.

"Thanks for clearing that up," he said, barely able to contain his rage.

"Of course, I only speak for myself—not my wife," his father said, silkily—apparently not afraid that his son would attack him, as Sirius very much appeared to be on the verge of doing.

"What does she want, really?" Sirius demanded, the anger clearing his head—if Orion wasn't playing anymore, neither was he. "Tell me."

"Who can say?" To Orion, the matter seemed of little importance. "She's a woman, and as you know they sometimes get rather foolish ideas about their children—even worthless and ungrateful ones."

His son gritted his teeth and suppressed a growl.

"So why don't you put a stop to it?" Sirius asked, grabbing the railing to keep himself for taking a swing at Orion—he was not yet that far gone. "Put your foot down? You could convince her. She'd listen to you."

"She might—or she might not." Mr. Black said, blandly. "Your mother has a mind of her own, after all."

"Just take a hardline position," Sirius said, breathing in and out slowly, trying desperately to regain composure over this situation that had spun entirely out of his control.

"Why should I?"

"Please—" Sirius was so desperate he was on the verge of begging. "Do it as a favor to me—"

"A favor?" his father repeated, so coldly angry that his son knew instantly using that word had been his biggest mistake yet. " _You're_ asking _me_ for a _favor_? You think you deserve special privileges after your appalling behavior three years ago?"

For the first time since this conversation had begun, Sirius was actually physically afraid—he shrank back as his father advanced on him, the most angry his elder son had ever seen him.

"You skulk out of my house in the middle of the night like a common thief," Orion continued, wrathfully. "Don't even have the courtesy to leave a note for your mother, the courage to tell me to my face what you intended—I wait _three days_ before receiving a letter from a woman I've never even met telling me you're alive—you insult me in every conceivable way—and you think I would do you this _favor_?" Orion paused, very close to his petrified eldest son. "—You want to know why I didn't disinherit you? You weren't worthy of stooping to the effort of it."

Sirius flushed an ugly shade of red—he was now at the point of anger that made him dangerously reckless.

"I see what this is about—why you're really angry. I've wounded your great Black pride—" Sirius's father's eyes flashed with a cold fury quite unlike his wife. "Just because I left before I could be thrown out—"

His father laid one hand, gently but firmly, on his shoulder. His elder son jumped at the touch. His father steered him to the edge of the fire escape.

"Do you really think it wise to _antagonize_ me in such a moment, boy?" Orion asked, calmly and pleasantly. "Unarmed and standing on a Muggle death trap sixty feet above the ground?"

Sirius looked down, inwardly calculating if he could aim for the dumpster from this height and wondering, bleakly, if Orion would leave him down there with both legs broken, or put him out of his misery and finish him then and there?

"I would dearly love it if you threw me off the building, actually," the son replied, brashly, looking up again. "Anything to get out of this conversation."

Orion let go of his shoulder and gave him a knowing, sly look.

"What would you do if I did?" his father asked, falsely innocent—completely in control of himself again. "Would you—turn into a bird and fly away?"

It took a moment for Sirius to process the words—another for him to glean what they might—what they _could_ mean.

 _Shit._

"What kind of—question is that?" Sirius asked, a nervous jump in his voice.

His father didn't reply—only kept smiling.

"Alright—" Sirius said, anxiety creeping into his bones at his father's expression. It would be better to get off the subject of people turning into animals as soon as possible. "Alright, fine. I admit—I could've left things better. I was only sixteen—and for God's sake, you've had three years to cool off!" he proclaimed, leaning back against the wall. "In the time since I'm sure you've realized it was for the best—"

"'For the best'?" Orion repeated, scathingly. "My firstborn son and heir, the child upon whom I have conferred _my very name—_ throws everything I've ever given him back in my face, and you expect me to be—"

"Oh, don't try to dress up the past, Dad!" Sirius said, exasperated. "We'd been fighting for weeks, everyone in the house was miserable. Nobody was begging me to stay."

Mr. Black started in surprise—amazed at the boy having the gall to argue with him at such a moment, cornered as was, but Sirius had rallied, was begging a contradiction—and Orion found it difficult to argue with what he'd just said.

"So you ran away for our sakes, is that it?" his father asked, deeply sarcastic. "It was a noble gesture?"

His son's mulish look wavered.

"No—I just…" He looked away from his father, down the alley to the small strip of street that was visible.

"You just _what_?" Orion snapped. "What _exactly_ did you think you were doing, Sirius?"

It was the first time in over three years Orion had addressed him by his given name, and it had the unintended effect of draining Mr. Black's son of all his anger. Sirius stared up at him for a long time.

"I thought I was preempting you."

Mr. Black's expression shifted from anger to surprise. Sirius had slid to a sitting position again, and he looked very small.

"…You thought we were going to turn you out on the street?" Orion asked him. The boy stared determinedly in the other direction. They sat in silence, listening to distance sounds of cars and the wind.

"That did occur to me at the time, yeah," his son admitted, at last.

"We—had no intention of doing such a thing," his father said, stiffly.

The younger Black's eyes remained stubbornly fixed on a the distant point, and he wrapped his arms around his knees.

"Well, glad we got that straight," Sirius replied, moodily. Orion's eyes remained on his son, watching him carefully. "You've had your say about it at last—got to yell at me. I hope you're satisfied, now."

"Depends on your definition of the word," Mr. Black remarked, still staring down at his sulking elder son.

"I really didn't know you were—this pissed off about it all," Sirius mumbled into his knees. Orion snorted at his son's descriptive choice. "I also wasn't aware that I had to 'formally renounce' my claim to the estate—like I'm some kind of _deposed prince_."

"Not how _I_ would describe you," Orion said, lightly. "And it hardly matters now."

"Why….do you say that?" Sirius asked, with trepidation, looking up at his father, wide-eyed.

"It's all in the past." To Sirius's surprise, he bent over and tugged at his son's elbow. "Come, now—get up."

Sirius stumbled, shakily, to his feet. His father brushed some dirt off his shoulder.

"You look like you're about to faint from exhaustion," Mr. Black observed, evenly. "You ought to go rest. We can finish this conversation later."

"…After you've spoken to Mother?" Sirius asked, warily—the stirring of fight behind his eyes.

"Yes," Orion said, warning in his voice. Sirius was trying to summon his last bit of strength, in spite of the fact that he seemed as though one good shove would finish him. "It's as she said, we'll discuss the best course of action for the family—"

"—And then you'll 'tell Regulus and I how things are going to be', isn't that how she put it?" Sirius finished for him, deeply sarcastic. His father pointedly ignoring the rudeness in what he undoubtedly felt was a magnanimous gesture.

"You really do need rest," Mr. Black observed, giving his son a critical once-over. "And when was the last time you ate?"

"This all didn't come out of nowhere," Sirius said, staring at his father with new suspicion. "How long have you been thinking about this?"

"About three hours, I'd say," Mr. Black took out his watch and, to Sirius's annoyance, checked. "No, actually—four."

Sirius shook his head in disbelief.

"No—no you _wanted_ it to happen." His tone of voice had shifted from accusatory to paranoid; he was fast on the road to hysteria. "Did you _plan_ this?"

"Until last night, I was not under the impression I would ever see you again," Orion said, impatiently. "So I fail to see why I would be _scheming_ over you."

"Don't play innocent—it doesn't suit you," Sirius said, harshly. "This is all too damn neat by half."

Orion let out a long-suffering sigh at his son's borderline hysterical rantings.

"Have you taken leave of your senses?" It was clearly a rhetorical question. "If you are hellbent on blaming someone for our reunion, I suggest you look to your idiot brother. He's the one responsible for this situation—"

"—This situation," Sirius hissed. "That you are taking _every_ possible advantage of!"

"What is to you 'taking advantage'—is to me, merely—" Orion searched around for the correct phrase. "—Adapting to these new circumstances I find myself in, and acting as I see fit when opportunities arise that are to my…benefit."

"That is the most _fucking_ Slytherin justification I've ever heard," Sirius growled, angrily.

"Well—dexterity _is_ something we're known for. I thought Gryffindors had it as well," Orion said, with a faint sneer. "But maybe I was mistaken."

"You—"

"I hope you don't intend to use language like that in front of your mother," his father cut him off, cooly.

Sirius clenched his jaw and set it, stubbornly.

"And if I do?"

"I wouldn't advise it," his father warned him. Sirius's hackles rose and Orion glared at him, sternly. "You have played the part of the brave soldier long enough, Sirius—you know you're beaten, and it is childish and beneath you to keep carrying on in this way."

"I am not 'carrying on'—"

"Who do you imagine is holding the reigns, here?" Orion cut him off, coldly. "You think we don't know that old fool Dumbledore told you to placate us—keep us happy? Did he tell you to try to work on us, as well?"

"No," Sirius said, glaring up at him. "Not in…not in so many words."

Orion let out a hard, humorless 'ha!'

"That wily old half-blood should have been in Slytherin himself," he drawled, thoughtful. "Apparently _everyone_ involved in this knows how to turn it to their advantage—except you." Sirius glowered at him. "Does he think you can get us to spy for him?"

"No—of course not!" Sirius said—the thought of what Dumbledore would say if he could see him now made him feel sick. "He asked me to be the go-between, arrange things for Regulus, that's all."

"That's _not_ all—

"—And to be kind and polite to you."

This admission genuinely surprised the Black patriarch—but he recovered quickly, smiling without humor.

"He really told you to do that?" Sirius nodded, and Mr. Black let out a derisive laugh. "You follow _his_ orders about as well as you followed ours."

"Don't compare yourself to him!" Sirius said, indignantly. "You're nothing to him at all—nothing!"

His father studied him cooly for a moment, his patience and tolerance at a very obvious end.

"This is wearisome—you aren't fit for civilized conversation in this state." Orion pulled out his own wand and pointed up at the open window. "Get in the house."

"No."

"How long do you intend to keep fighting me?"

"Until the day I die," Sirius shot back—and then he flushed, realizing how stupid and melodramatic he sounded, even to himself.

Orion closed his eyes and rubbed his temples.

"I didn't want to have to do this," he said, opening his eyes again, newfound resolve obvious. "But you haven't given me much of a choice."

He was looking at his son with the sober regret of a man about to inflict paternal discipline on an unruly child.

Mr. Black stepped forward and grabbed Sirius's chin, and yanking it towards him. His boy winced.

"Ow—!" Sirius cried. "What are you doing—?"

"Bringing you to heel," his father snapped. "Look at me—and _don't_ look away."

Sirius stopped struggling immediately.

"Now—your mother has gotten something into her head," he said, softly. Sirius's skin prickled. "That she's confided in me. Do you know what it is?"

He tried to shake his head, but Orion was holding his chin too tightly, his other hand firmly gripping Sirius's left shoulder like an iron vice. His father continued, unabated—no answer was necessary.

"She thinks that you're up to something illegal." Sirius made a small noise in the back of his throat not unlike a whimper. "That you've become an unregistered Animagus, in fact."

He tried to slip out of his father's grip, but Orion had him pressed against the brick wall of the block of flats.

"Let me—"

" _I told you not to look away,_ " he said, icily. Sirius slowly raised his eyes to meet the identical pair boring right through him.

"Now…" His voice was dangerously soft. "Is that true?"

"I—"

"The answer is either 'yes' or 'no.'"

His son fixed him with his haughtiest look and snapped his mouth shut. Father and son stared each other down, unblinkingly—until Sirius realized what Orion was doing and jerked his head away fiercely.

"Stop doing that—!"

"So, it _is_ true then," his father said, letting go of his son's chin but not his shoulder—he pressed down a bit harder to keep the boy in place. "You wouldn't be so afraid of me using Legilimancy on you if it wasn't."

"I just don't want you nosing about in my mind, that's all!" Sirius said, rubbing his chin angrily. "And it's not—she doesn't know a damn thing about what—"

"Oh, don't insult my intelligence—" Orion jeered. "You're guilty as sin. It's laughably obvious."

It was true, Sirius was sweating, and his breathing was shallow, like that of a cornered criminal.

"Even if it—if it _were_ true," he said, voice shaky, wiping his sweaty hands on his shirt. "You couldn't prove it."

"I will make this simple for you." The older man steered his son around, switching places with him on the fire escape—Orion was now back against the wall, his wand alertly pointed at Sirius.

"Show me," his father ordered. "Transform."

Sirius crossed his arms and scowled.

"I can't," his son replied, shortly. "I don't know how. Sorry."

Orion's eyes narrowed.

"You have a clear choice. If you do _not_ obey me—" He jabbed his wand back at the window. "I shall walk inside and tell your mother that I believe she is right." Sirius went white as a sheet. "She tricked you into taking sleeping draught last night, didn't she? You think she wouldn't do the same with Veritaserum—slip it your pumpkin juice, your wine, the food?" His son grimaced. "She'll have it out of you in a day."

This thought had clearly already occurred to his son—staring at his father, trying to gauge if he would really act on such a low threat.

"What's my other option?" Sirius asked, after a moment of hard thinking.

"Well—if you obey me," Orion continued, in a reasonable tone. "I will tell her that she is mistaken in her suspicions about this. How does that sound?"

"Too good to be true," Sirius answered him, honestly. "Like she'd even believe you!"

"You think I don't know how to lie to a woman?" his father retorted. "It's easy enough—you only do it about small things and let them catch you half the time. That way they never know the tells when it matters."

"Thanks for the stellar tips on the fairer sex, dad—" the younger wizard rolled his eyes. "I'll be sure to take that one to Gringotts."

Orion didn't smile.

"So which will it be, Sirius?" his father said, squaring his shoulders. "I'm not going to stand out here all day waiting for you to decide."

The boy's defiant expression faltered.

"You'll really lie to her?" his son asked, quietly. "You…swear?" Mr. Black raised an eyebrow and nodded, curtly. "Swear on—swear on Gran's grave!"

Orion almost laughed at his son's ridiculous Gryffindor demand of a solemn vow, but given how nervous and tired the boy was, decided to humor him.

"I swear on the grave and memory of my mother, Melania McMillan Black, that I will tell my wife that she's mistaken," Orion said, barely able to keep the sarcasm out of his voice. "Does that satisfy you? Do I need to take an oath as well?"

Sirius was still eying him with deep distrust. He looked around at the deserted alleyway, searching about for potential Muggle witnesses.

"I…can't do it out here."

"I think my terms were very clear, Sirius."

"It's too small," he protested, hotly. "I—won't fit."

"What sort of an animal _do_ you turn into?" his father asked, raising an eyebrow. "You'd have to be fairly large not to fit there, you've plenty of room."

"I'm a walrus," his son replied, completely deadpan.

"'Padfoot' is a singular nickname for a wizard who turns into a walrus," Orion said, more amused than annoyed. "I've a suspicion about this, and _I_ think you'll fit up here just fine. Let's see if I'm right."

Sirius peered around at his father, betraying a hint of curiosity.

"What do you think I am?" he asked. Orion smiled.

"We named you well, didn't we?"

Sirius glared—half-heartedly, without any real resistance, clearly just stalling for the sake of it.

"The sooner we get this over with the sooner you can go rest," his father said, firmly. "Now, stop putting it off. Show me."

His elder son threw him one final hostile look before transforming into the gigantic black dog his father had already guessed he was.

Mr. Black did not even blink at his eldest son morphing into an animal right in front of his eyes.

"Well, then…" Orion murmured, half to himself—and then he bent at the knees, and got on the dog's level, eye-to-eye. "Let's have a look at you, shall we?"

He was, naturally, a very handsome creature—it was difficult to say what breed, but Mr. Black would have guessed some kind of wolf or deer hound. The gray eyes that were still very clearly Orion's own sparkled with intelligence far beyond that of a normal dog—after all, the middle-aged wizard noted, with faint amusement, animals did not _usually_ manage to look quite so sullen when being inspected by their masters and betters.

Being in this form stirred his son's defiant streak again, for when Orion reached out to touch his snout, the dog actually had the nerve to bare his teeth and growl.

"Stop that," Orion ordered him, sharply. The dog flattened his ears and whimpered, and still looking none-too-pleased, submitted to the inspection without further insolence. His father tilted up his head to get a better look at his front quarters and noticed the dog eying the open window with undisguised longing.

Orion stood up again and looked down at his son.

"If you even _think_ about trying to leap for that, I'll give you a hiding," Orion warned him, sleekly. "I don't care _how_ old you are."

The dog snorted and tossed its head in a very Black way.

"Stand up and turn around, I want to see the rest of you." Padfoot whined at the indignity inherent in this order. "Don't make me ask twice."

Still glowering, the dog stood up on all four legs (he really _was_ gigantic, just able to fit comfortably on the metal platform) and rotated once so his father could see 'the rest of him'. He plopped back down again and glared daggers up at Mr. Black, 'are we done here?' the obvious silent question.

"There, was that so difficult?" Orion bent over again and gave Sirius a couple of brisk pats on the head. "You can change back."

The dog transformed back into Sirius. His father was pleased to note that far from having his usual stubborn defiance, the boy now looked quite cowed—even fearful, and after a brief glare stared down at his shoes.

Maybe he was actually beginning to grasp the gravity of his situation.

"How long have you been able to do this?" Orion finally asked, calmly. He no longer felt he needed to impress upon his son the importance of telling the truth.

"Since…fifth year of school," Sirius said, to the metal grate beneath his feet. "Autumn."

"So—over four years," his father said, thoughtfully. "And you were still living under my roof when you learned to do this—illicitly."

His boy nodded stiffly again.

"Who knows about it?" Sirius fidgeted and kept glaring at the ground, so Mr. Black decided to prompt for a reaction, as he had a shrewd idea. "James Potter, naturally—and his wife. Lyhall Lupin's son who was out there a while ago—and that other boy, the under-bred, fat one—Pettigrew, is his name?"

Sirius passed over this insulting description of his friend and looked up at his father.

"Yes," he admitted. There didn't seem much point in lying about that, it must've been obvious at this point.

"…But Dumbledore doesn't," Orion said, his eyes widened when he realized this—and then his mouth turned upward in a look of grim satisfaction. "You managed to achieve this—not inconsiderable feat—under his nose? He has no idea?"

"He doesn't even suspect."

His father, to Sirius's great surprise, actually started to laugh.

"It took a great deal of cunning to pull off keeping this quiet. I have to admit, my boy—" Orion said, with a hint of pride—and put a hand on his son's shoulder. "I'm impressed. Maybe there's more Slytherin in you than I thought—"

"—That is the most insulting thing you've ever said to me!" Sirius shot back, furiously pushing his hand away. "And I am not 'your boy'—"

"—When I said I was bringing you to heel," his father cut him off, sleekly. "I didn't realize yet how true that was." Sirius balled his fists again and glared, humiliated. "How long did it take you to learn how to do this?"

"Three years."

"And why did you?"

"Because I was bored!" Sirius lied, boldly.

"That's a tall tale, even for you," his father said, faintly sneering. He took out his watch and looked at the time again. "No matter—there will be time enough to get the rest from you. Ways and means are hardly the point, anyway."

"What…what _is_ the point?" Sirius asked, unable to mask his fear, even if he was in the last throws of aggressive defense. "Now that you—now that you know, what are you going to do?"

Orion slowly put his watch back in his pocket and studied his trembling son without a trace of pity or warmth.

"I? I don't intend to do anything," he said, lightly—pleasantly. "You will, though."

Sirius was starting to find breathing in and out calmly difficult.

"What do you—" he half-choked. "Think… _I'm_ going to do, then?"

"Oh—" His father said, thoughtfully, with the air of someone about to deal the lethal blow. "Exactly what I tell you to, I expect."

He paused for effect, let the statement fully sink in for his son. Sirius looked incredibly young in this moment, and when he stared up at his father, a man he had known literally his entire life, it was as if he did not recognize him.

"Is that—is that a _threat_?" Sirius asked, his shock and rage competing with one another. "Are you _blackmailing me_?"

"'Blackmail' is a distasteful word," his father observed, calmly.

Sirius gripped the railing to keep himself from swinging an arm in the direction of the older wizard. He had never wanted his wand more than now. Orion was watching him with utter unconcern.

"Blackmail is a distasteful _business_!" Sirius replied, voice heavy with accusation. "Particularly when one is doing it to one's own _son_."

Mr. Black took this accusation quite calmly—though something dangerous lurked behind his eyes that his son had gotten rather good at recognizing since the start of this audience.

"So you're my son again, are you?" Orion said, cooly. "Funny how you can't seem to make up your mind on this point." He advanced on Sirius, who retreated, pressing his back against the railing. "You've no interest in showing me the respect a _father_ is owed, but you'll appeal to my sense of _paternal beneficence_ quick enough when you _want something_ from me."

Sirius ignored this jibe in favor of gazing at the older, taller version of himself as though he was a particularly poisonous viper.

"How far would you actually take this? What are you—" Sirius's pale eyes widened in fear. "Would you really report me—get me chucked in Azkaban?"

"Oh, don't be so dramatic," his father snapped. "You think I give a _damn_ if you broke the law? The Registry is just another excuse for those Ministry meddlers to stick their noses in where they don't belong."

Sirius gaped at him, not understanding—filled with fear all the same, and his father's next words left him cold.

"As far as I'm concerned, the only person you lied to was _me_ , because I'm your father and the head of this family, and how you conduct yourself is _my_ affair and no one else's." Sirius leaned against the bannister again, weakly. "I always told you your inability to hold your tongue would get you in trouble, but did you _ever listen_?"

"What are you—"

"Years of keeping _such_ a secret," Orion jeered, derisively. "And you throw it all away with a single indiscreet remark to your mother. _Pathetic—_ and it'll cost you dearly."

The urge to attack his father reared up again, and it took every once of sense in Sirius to keep himself from doing so when he saw the unbearably smug look on Orion Black's face.

His son screwed up his face and his courage—he was not beaten yet.

"If you're not holding Azkaban over me," he said, with far more confidence than he felt. "What can you even do?"

"I could tell your mother," Orion pointed out, lightly. "And _she_ might see fit to report you, if she thought it was worth her while."

"You _just_ swore on Gran's grave that you wouldn't tell!"

"I said I would lie to her once," Mr. Black replied, completely calm in the face of his son's near-fit. "But I didn't promise to keep your secrets indefinitely—not from her, not from anyone." His expression turned derisive. "What difference does it make to my _mother_? She's been dead for a decade, and Mama always thought we spoiled you, anyway. I think she'd quite approve of me taking a firmer hand, _oaths on her grave_ aside."

Sirius turned around and looked down, practically hanging off the edge of the railing, ready to jump to platform ten feet below them. The young wizard felt a prickling at the back of his neck, and he was sure his father had his wand pointed at him—just in case.

"So that's it?" Sirius said, spinning back around to face Orion. "You're just going to hang this over me for the rest of my life?"

His father was so maddeningly self-assured and unflappable, standing underneath the window. After a half-hour spent quietly and confidently dismantling his elder son's every attempt at escape—possibly his entire world—now the middle-aged wizard seemed bored, as though he would like nothing more than to abandon this tedious conversation, go back inside, have a cup of tea and read the paper.

"I will not be made a villain in some fairy story you've concocted in your own head," Orion replied, patiently. "I am perfectly reasonable—"

"No you're not!" Sirius spat, angrily. "You're a crafty, artful, deceiving old _serpent—_ just like _everyone else_ in this family."

"Except for you, of course," Mr. Black replied, faintly amused at this florid description of himself.

"I am _not a part_ of this family anymore!" Sirius shot back, with a hysterical catch in his voice. Orion's eyes narrowed—a part of him wondered, idly, if the boy was so worked up he was in danger of fainting there and then.

"So you keep telling me," he said, his voice colder.

"I'll prove it," Sirius replied—with the caged desperation of an animal caught in a trap. It was an apt description, for he was the type to keep thrashing about and make his wounds worse. "Right now."

"How do you intend to do that?"

"I'll ask _her_."

"So—failing to move me, you think you can run to your mother's skirts for protection, do you?" Mr. Black said, with polite skepticism. "You really don't know when to quit, boy."

"She's got _enormous_ pride," Sirius said, his voice more controlled—though there was a slightly manic gleam in his eyes. "Even more than you. Even if she did want me back, she couldn't bring herself to admit it—"

Orion followed the train of his son's logic with private amusement—the boy had near identical justifications as his mother's the night before. The end conclusions had been, sadly, polar opposite.

"Interesting theory," he said, stroking his chin. "Care to test it?"

Orion stepped aside and raised a hand to the window, indicating that his son should climb through it. Sirius looked from Orion to the window a few times, confused—unsure—before—

"Yeah," he snapped, pushing past his father and hopping, unsteadily, on the railing. "Let's."

Tired and still without a wand, Sirius's scramble through the gigantic window he'd created was extremely undignified. He did not wait for his father (close at his heels—having magic to float him up several feet helped) but instead bolted back down the hall, through the kitchen and into the living room without even waiting to check that Orion was even still behind him.

The door burst open with a bang.

"What in the name of Salazar—?" Walburga knelt at Regulus's bedside, ladling his potion into the boy's mouth, and she dropped the spoon in shock.

Sirius leaned against the wall, panting so hard he might've run a mile. Two seconds later her stately husband glided in behind his disheveled son. Mrs. Black looked between the two men in astonishment—there could not have been a more obvious contrast. One was a picture of self-control, the other a wreck.

Regulus watched his brother with faint alarm, then looked up at his father for an explanation that was not immediately forthcoming.

"Point of contention between your husband and I," said Sirius to his mother, quickly. "That I need you to settle for us."

"Orion—" Walburga turned to her husband with frank astonishment. "What is he raving about?"

"Lad's got a question for you, that's all," Orion answered her, leaning casually on the door frame—poised to leisurely watch his son's grand finale. "You can answer it."

She exchanged a silent communication with her husband, and Sirius's mother turned slowly back around to her infamously difficult elder son, expression cool.

"Fine then—what is it?"

Sirius took a moment to steady himself, breathing in and out slowly. Then he blinked, and seemingly calm (though there was a feverish glow in his eyes), started to speak.

"Hypothetical scenario. A member of your family—the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black—behaves in a way so scandalous that his own mother removes his name from the tapestry bearing the coat of arms and family tree."

She threw her husband a sharp look—but he was too busy watching Sirius to notice. He took another deep breath and plowed on.

"Now, given the traditions of this family that stretch back for nine centuries, since your noble ancestor Ophiuchus Black the First came over with the Normans and William the Conquerer—" Sirius took a step towards her, face shining with intensity. "—Can you see _any conceivable way_ that this person for any reason would be permitted back into the family? Is there _any precedent_ for such a thing?"

His mother stared at him for a very long time. Apart from the usual cool arrogant haughtier, her face was completely expressionless. Her elder son looked back at her, trying very hard to mirror her aloofness, unable to hid the desperate urgency that had crept into the question.

"This is what you and your father spoke about?" Walburga asked, at last—her face still an impassive blank.

Sirius blinked.

"Yes—I mean, among other things." He squinted at her. "So—what do you think?"

"Well, what does your father say?"

Sirius tilted his head, perplexed by the question—determined not to look at Orion for a translation. His father was still watching him like a hawk—though amusement had turned to pity.

"Well—he seems to think there… _is_ a possibility…" Sirius then added, hastily. "But I was sure that that couldn't be true—"

"Sirius Orion, your father is the head of this family," his mother said, staring at him like he was insane. "Why would you expect me to have an answer different from his?"

Sirius's hands fell limply at his sides. He just stared at her in punch-drunk bewilderment.

"Well…because…you're a Black in your own right, you know the family traditions as well as he does—better, maybe!" her son pointed out, agitatedly.

His mother gave him a cool smile and stepped close to him.

"Yes, dear, but as you pointed out yourself—" She reached up and touched the cut on his face gently with her thumb. "—I'm only a _woman_. It's not my place to supersede your father on such matters."

"But…"

Smiling, she cupped his cheek possessively, just for a moment, before letting go and stepping back to look him over.

"You'll need to drink more of your potion, soon," Walburga said, giving him an appraising, critical look. "But that's healing up well. No scar."

Sirius looked over to his father, helplessly.

"Well, there—you have your answer," Mr. Black said, pushing up from where he was leaning on the doorframe and crossing over to join his wife. "Are you satisfied?"

His parents stood together—practically posed, almost as one would for a formal portrait. Orion's hand rested on his wife's shoulder, their backs were both ramrod straight, impeccably dressed—identical expressions of cool confidence, a completely united front. Side-by-side they seemed to tower over their son.

They looked like a king and queen to him, lording themselves over all the peasantry—over _him_ , except he wasn't one of the peasants, was he?

He was the damned crown prince. Sirius felt himself swaying on his feet.

"You know the answer to that question," he said, weakly.

"And it puts the matter to rest for you?"

"…Yes," he sighed, heavily. "It does."

Orion gave him an approving nod that reminded his son forcibly of the condescension of nursery days—a chocolate biscuit for a lesson well earned. Sirius frowned—though he barely had the energy to at this point.

"I cannot believe—" he stepped a few feet sideways and sank, shakily, into the armchair. "—the _appalling_ drop in standards that has taken place in this family of late."

"Maybe you ought to go lie down, boy," his father remarked, mild warning in his voice. Sirius curled his legs up on the chair instead. "You aren't sensible."

"I find it, quite frankly, abysmal," his older son continued, leaning his uninjured cheek again his hand and picking at a stray thread coming out of the arm. "The two of you can't even properly _disown_ someone, anymore. What is the world coming to?"

"In his three-year absence, your firstborn son has grown _astoundingly_ traditional in his views about how the family should be run," Orion informed Walburga, voice heavy with irony. "A transformation."

Sirius snorted.

"I'll believe it when I see proof in front of my eyes," Mrs. Black said, eyeing the sulking twenty-year-old on the armchair with distinctly maternal exasperation. "Speaking of which—Orion." She turned her shrewd eyes to her husband. "Did you look into the matter we discussed last night?"

Sirius stopped pulling at the thread and peaked up Mr. Black.

"Yes…" his father said, warily. "…and you were wrong."

His father stressed the statement with the perfect amount of casual annoyance to sell it as fact and not a flagrant, whopping lie. Sirius, grudgingly, was impressed. Evidently Orion was as good at deceiving his wife as he had claimed.

"Are you sure? Because I really think—"

"I told you I was, didn't I?" Mr. Black snapped, impatiently. "It's easy enough to check, and I'm telling you—he's not one."

"But—"

"For the last time, woman—you're barking up the wrong tree!" Orion said, with an air of finality and supreme irritation. "It was a far-fetched whim and I don't want to hear anything more about it."

Sirius stole a surreptitious glance at his father. Orion's eyes met his older son's for a second. A surge of gratefulness towards the family patriarch rose in him, unbidden—Sirius suppressed it, annoyed at himself for being happy that the man had done the bare minimum of what'd he'd promised.

Walburga glared at her husband, as if it was his fault that their son was not, as she suspected and hoped, in trouble that she could exploit.

Regulus, meanwhile, had not stopped staring at Sirius since he had curled up moodily in the armchair.

"What did you mean about not being properly disowned?"

Sirius turned in his chair to look at his brother, a fresh surge of anger—blunted by his exhaustion—he had forgotten about Reg's stake in all this.

"Only that our father never bothered to change his will, meaning I'm—" He threw Orion a nasty look. "—Still the legal heir to his _obscene_ family fortune."

Regulus's mouth fell open.

"Is that true, Orion?" Walburga asked her husband—genuinely surprised. Mr. Black, still fixing his stubborn son with a quailing expression, nodded once.

"You're not going to let him get away with that, are you?" Sirius asked his mother, his voice peevish. He was unable to resist the temptation to appeal to her, even when he knew it must be a losing fight. "It's completely unacceptable!"

"It is hardly your place to call _anything_ unacceptable, Sirius Orion, " Mrs. Black replied, tartly. "And I'm sure your father has his reasons, that should be good enough for you."

"Good enough for _you_ , more like."

" _Sirius_ ," his father said, warning in his voice.

"Did _you_ know anything about this?" Sirius rounded on his brother, looking for support in any quarter. Regulus shook his head very slowly. "Well, I hope you're not going to take it lying down—"

"Do not try to frame this hysterical _pet_ you're in as being concern for your brother's fortunes," Orion cut him off, curtly. "He will be perfectly well taken care of, as you know."

Sirius scowled. He did, of course, know this perfectly well. Though Regulus's birth had not been met with as much fanfare as his older brother's, another boy meant another branch of the male Black line—sorely needed, when so many of Phineas Nigellus's descendants had an unfortunate habit of producing daughters—and care was taken to ensure he would not discredit the family name. Their maternal grandfather had been particularly pleased at getting a second grandson—Walburga had managed what the unmarried Alphard and Cygnus, with his three _daughters_ , had not. As such, Pollux Black had set aside a legacy for the infant Regulus Arcturus, gold and a modest estate in Derbyshire, both of which would be his once he married.

It was less grand than Grimmauld Place—and Sirius knew, deep down, the cottage suited Regulus far more than the stately London townhouse he'd grown up in, but that did not make him any less disquieted by the whole business, which reeked of Black intrigue.

"Don't worry, Regulus—" Sirius gave his father another haughty glare, this time with a tinge of malice. "—When the old man does _snuff_ it, you can have the lot."

Regulus went pink. Their father's eyes glittered coldly, but he refused to rise to his son's bait, maintaining the ironclad control over himself that Sirius had always hated.

"I may _yet_ have life in me—but if the thought of my death gives you comfort, far be it from me to deny you the pleasure," Orion said, unconcerned. "Get up off that chair and come here."

To his mother's and Regulus's shock, Sirius—sulkily, it was true—obeyed his father.

"Now—" Sirius stared at a spot above Mr. Black's left shoulder. "You've made your views on this matter quite clear. I don't want to hear anything else about it, today—do I make myself clear?"

"Mm," Sirius mumbled.

"That is _not_ a proper response to an elder and better, Sirius," his father said, smoothly. "Try it again. _Do I make myself clear_?"

"Yes, you make yourself clear—" He glared and added, with the tiniest hint of sarcasm. "— _Sir_."

Mr. Black's expression was quite withering.

"The tone needs work, but that'll do for the present," he said, tilting his son's chin up gently to look him directly in the eye. Sirius's eyes were distinctly glassy now—he watched his son blink away something that looked suspiciously like tears.

"Now—you're going to go into the bedroom and rest. When supper is ready, you'll come out and join us, dressed like the pureblood wizard you _are_ , not the Muggle scamp you parade around _pretending to be_."

Sirius blinked harder but did not argue. Walburga was looking at her husband in complete astonishment—more shocked than even Regulus.

"We'll talk about everything else at dinner, and you will be polite and courteous when we do." Sirius made a very small noise in the back of his throat. "Some sleep should curb your appetite for making _hysterical scenes_."

Everyone in the family was rather spellbound by this display of force—none of them had ever seen Sirius cowed as he was now. Even as a child he had never taken Orion's chastisements with so little pushback—boy Sirius had a near pathological need to be smart.

"I want my wand back," he said, quietly.

"Does that pronouncement seem likely to _get_ you your wand?"

"May I—please have my wand back—Father?" his son corrected himself, practically wrenching the words from his own lips. Orion slowly reached into the interior pocket of his robes and held it up for a moment—as if testing to see if Sirius would be foolish enough to snatch it.

He didn't—instead the boy stared with undisguised longing.

"Are you going to turn it on me?" Orion asked, in a soft voice.

"How _stupid_ do you think I am?"

"I think I've sufficiently answered that question, boy," Mr. Black said, mockingly. "But you haven't answered mine."

Sirius let out an exhausted sigh.

"No, Father, I have no intention of _turning my wand_ on you."

 _Right now,_ Sirius added in his head, mutinously.

"What _do_ you intend?"

"To go in the bedroom, sleep, then come out when dinner is ready—properly dressed, in robes," he said, in a flat and monotonous voice. "You have my complete and unconditional surrender, now can I _please_ have my wand?"

His father knew full well that he did _not_ have Sirius's complete and unconditional surrender—that he was, in fact, holding the proverbial whip over his boy—but he smiled all the same and lowered the wand, pressing it gently into his elder son's right hand. Sirius's fingers curled around the thin strip of wood. To have it back gave him far less comfort than it would have under any other circumstances.

He was still hopelessly trapped.

"Good," Mr. Black said, briskly, squeezing Sirius on the shoulder. No doubt he meant it comfortingly, but to his son it felt more like a gesture of ownership. "You're dismissed."

In his abject humiliation, Sirius could not bear to look at Regulus or—even worse, his mother—and so the reluctant heir apparent to the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black swiftly turned on his heel and stumbled, rather inelegantly, out of the room.


	6. Part Six

_"...What do wizard wars mean to an elf like Kreacher? He's loyal to people who are kind to him, and Mrs. Black must have been, and Regulus certainly was, so he served them willingly and parroted their beliefs. I know what you're going to say," she went on as Harry began to protest, "that Regulus changed his mind . . . but he doesn't seem to have explained that to Kreacher, does he? And I think I know why. Kreacher and Regulus's family were all safer if they kept to the old pure-blood line. Regulus was trying to protect them all."_

 _-J.K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows_

 **PART SIX**

There was nothing Sirius Black wanted more than the blissful oblivion of unconsciousness. He did not think he had, in his life, ever been more exhausted than he was now—and yet, sleep would not come.

The young wizard lay flat on his back on top of the covers and stared dully at the ceiling of his bedroom. His eyes were glassy and stuck open, like a china doll's.

Sirius's body ached, his head _pounded._

He felt as though his skull might split open from all the thoughts that were churning around inside of his brain. Lying down had drawn attention to his empty stomach, crying out for sustenance that would not come for several hours. He was too tired to sleep and too hungry to get up and forage for food, and anyway, Sirius was afraid of running into someone in the kitchen.

There was nothing worth eating in the cupboards, anyway. The thought of stabbing open a can of tinned beans and quickly wolfing it down in this room conjured up a picture of being besieged in an underground bunker or bomb shelter. That's what it felt like—that the quiet and dark of this room was a only a brief respite from what lurked just outside the door.

How had he gotten himself into this mess?

Sirius kept playing the events over and over again in his mind, but it was all an incoherent jumble. He was stuck on the beginning and the end—his mind unable to grasp how a night that had started so promisingly had ended _here_.

Twelve hours ago he had been playing Exploding Snap in this flat with Lily, waiting to hear word from James that his mission had gone as planned—a little anxious about Prongs, but otherwise content. He and Lily were talking about what they were going to do over Christmas. He was going to get Chinese takeout for them.

Twelve hours ago he was free.

Now Sirius did not know _what_ he was—but it wasn't free. Truthfully, he'd never been in a _worse_ position—and that included when he had been alone, fighting five Death Eaters in the middle of the night in a freezing village in Scotland.

At least there he'd been able to fucking _move_.

Now—between Dumbledore and his father—he was in such a tight spot he could hardly _breathe_.

He tried to shift over onto his side—maybe that would make it easier to fall asleep—but it was as if there were bags of lead tied to both his arms, weighing him down, and now his mind had decided to torture itself by reliving the fresh hell that had been his morning—and two of the worst conversations he had ever had.

 _Dumbledore and Dad, Dad and Dumbledore_ , he thought, a alliterative drum of misery in his head.

Sirius was torn on whether the audience with the headmaster or his father had been worse. He kept going back and forth about it, but every time he felt he had the definitive answer, he was reminded of some new miserable angle worth considering—which he did, clinically, still staring dully at the ceiling fan above his bed.

Was it worse to be told by your mentor that you were guilty of prejudice, or by your father that you were useless?

 _What Dad said hurt more._

The realization, when it came, was another sharp blow—the sharpest of all. A wave of anger and nausea stirred in his stomach—too tired to manifest as anything but a feeble glare at the ceiling fan.

His father had no right to make him feel _anything._

Dumbledore was a great man, worthy of respect and admiration, and when he had said those words to Sirius he had felt more shame than the young wizard had thought possible.

But Dumbledore hadn't wounded him like Orion had.

'Human sacrifice' had been putting what Dumbledore had done to him too mildly, as far as Sirius was concerned. He had thrown him to the lions—no, Sirius thought, jeeringly—he had thrown him into the pit of vipers that was his family.

Of them, Orion Black was the King Cobra.

God, he'd been stupid. How could he have _ever_ thought that man would help him—that bringing him out on the fire escape had been a _good idea_? There wasn't a single moment Sirius had been in control of _any_ of it.

If he had been less cocky, he would have remembered exactly who it was he was dealing with.

In one conversation Sirius's father had managed to achieve what should have been impossible. He had effortlessly exercised his enormous gift for manipulation and mastery on his elder son, while simultaneously making him feel like an insect, unworthy of notice. Orion had lead his firstborn around in circles by the nose, so that by the time his son had even realized there was danger the wily serpent had his body completely wrapped around its prey in a constrictive, python-like grip.

Unable to move, inexorably trapped—and Mr. Black had made his meaning very clear: he had no intention of releasing him. In fact, the more Sirius struggled, the tighter he would squeeze.

Sirius lifted a hand to his neck and massaged it—as if he could actually feel the invisible collar and leash.

He had always known that his father was not a man to cross—but it was not until this moment that he had realized how terrifying he truly was when angered.

There had been a time when he would have welcomed that anger—in the difficult years leading up to him running away, Sirius had seen his father distance himself, withdraw from family life—and from him, his son. Orion spent more and more time locked away in his study, left the disciplining of the disgraceful blood traitor to his wife, as if he didn't think it was even worth trying anymore. It had hurt Sirius, he could admit that now—at least Walburga had seemed to _care_ what he did.

Well—in the end he'd been wrong about that, he thought, bleakly. It turned out Orion cared quite a fucking bit, and his father caring was somehow, incredibly, a lot worse than the alternative.

A hollow laugh bubbled out of him as he imagined his next conversation with Dumbledore. Would the old man ask him for an update on how his mission was going? Only two hours into it and all he had managed to do was get himself blackmailed by his own father.

Sirius squeezed his eyes shut—the pounding in his head had gotten worse.

That he was an illegal Animagus was probably the worst secret his father could hold over him—and Sirius had a sickening feeling that he was _very_ aware of the potency of his newfound power. Orion must've known that his son's friends were implicated as well, that he would not go to Dumbledore and admit what he had done _now_ for fear of what might happen to James, Peter and Remus.

No, he would tell no one. He would act the part of Dumbledore's liaison, a role that he now had absolutely no business doing—as he had tried to warn him.

He was in far too deep now to back out.

 _"_ _Exactly what I tell you to, I expect…"_

What had Orion really meant by that? The memory of how he had said those words filled Sirius with sickly dread. Surely his father didn't expect him to violate his most sacred, most deeply held principles—he must've known his rebellious older son would risk Azkaban before betraying the Order, giving up the fight against Voldemort—so what was it he was after, truly?

Was this just punishment, meant to be inflicted over a long period for maximum effect, or was it exactly what it appeared to be—a domineering, slighted father who had never gotten over his wayward heir escaping his grasp and was now determined to force him back into his proper role, never let him _forget his place_ again?

Or was this all _her_?

His mother, Walburga Black. She was proving—against all odds—the most enigmatic figure in this.

Her face when she had dressed the cut on his cheek kept swimming up in his mind, unbidden—unwanted.

She was not behaving as he expected—needed her to. She had not yet screamed at him or called him filth. She had been careful, by _her_ standards Walburga was practically gentle. Sure, she had loudly remarked that she thought he was living in an animal pen—but his mother had also apologized for upsetting him, had taken care of his injuries, had _put him to bed._

The feeling of her hand on his face made his gut twist. His father had been dead right when he said he was afraid—Sirius was terrified of her, and not because of what she would try to make him do. He had no illusions about Walburga's complete lack of scruples in getting what she wanted.

It was how she could make him _feel_ that he was afraid of.

The worst thing of all was that not even James could help him, here—James, a hundred miles away with Lily in their cozy cottage, who had by now undoubtedly gotten the message he had passed to him through Remus telling him to stay away. James had not deserved that, but Sirius could not bring himself to let go of the resentment he felt towards his best friend. James was the person he had learned to lean on, had been relying on for understanding now, and James had failed him.

 _Is that what he did…really?_

Try as he might to block out this voice of reason, he could not prevent it from running roughshod over the narrative he had concocted in his head: a thrilling tale, the story of a brave young man, tragically misunderstood by one and all, held captive in enemy territory by a pair of impeccably-dressed despotic _warlords_. In the end even Sirius didn't buy it—wallowing over how hard done-by he was satisfied in the short-term, but he wasn't _that_ self-deluded. It had been easier to think of himself as deeply wronged than to face the truth: James was _right_. With a wife and a child on the way, his friend was _right_ to prioritize keeping them both safe over his best mate's feelings—however mixed-up said feelings might be. James had more far important things to worry about than being Sirius Black's walking security blanket.

Anyway, this was Sirius's fight, wasn't it? The fight he'd walked away from three years earlier, that he _thought_ he'd won. Turned out that had been nothing more than a cease-fire, and his father had just broken it with what felt like a cannon-ball to the _face_. The war was back on, and James had no business getting tangled up in it—with _them_. They were _relentless_ in pursuit of what they wanted, and if they really wanted _him_...and James tried to get in the way...well, he couldn't let that happen. He would do everything in his power to keep Orion and Walburga as far away from his _stupidly noble_ best friend as possible.

That realization made the burden infinitely heavier, though—for there had been nothing in life that he had faced in the eight years of their friendship James hadn't been at his side for.

And without James, who was there left to turn to?

The sound of an unassuming knock drew him from this dismal prospect. There was the squeak of a knob turned—and a quiet voice spoke through the crack in the door.

"…Are you awake?"

Sirius did not look up.

"Yeah," he said, quietly.

A creak, the padding of shuffling footsteps, a door shut again. Labored breathing, as though the simple act of walking into the other room took every ounce of strength the person had.

"You've—had an owl."

"Put it on the bedside table," Sirius said, his voice devoid of emotion. He made no effort to sit up. He found he did not much care about the letter. Whomever it was from, whatever it said—it could not be good news. There was no such thing as 'good news' today.

He heard Regulus drag his feet slowly across the carpet, and Sirius's younger brother set the letter and something rather heavier than parchment down on the small table next to the bed.

"Did I get a package?" he asked, detachedly.

"No, that's—something—from Father." Regulus said the last word in his smallest voice. "For you."

Sirius made a private vow to burn whatever it was—then he remembered.

"Tell him I'll look at it later." A pause—Regulus was still standing over the bed. "Anything else?"

"Mother said you have to drink more of your potion."

"Leave it on the—"

"—She said I wasn't to come back until I've made sure you've taken it."

He said this with as little emotion as his brother.

"Fine." He stretched out a hand. "Give it here, then."

A small vial was pushed into his hand. Sirius uncorked it and, still lying flat on his back, lifted it up and dribbled the restorative potion into his mouth, sloppily. He nearly choked—it really was foul. When he'd emptied the bottle he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and dropped it unceremoniously on the carpet. The older brother heard the soft swish of robes as Regulus bent over and picked it up.

"You can bring that back and show her—tell her I finished it."

Sirius waited for the inevitable sound of his younger brother shuffling out of the room to do just that, but it did not come. Instead he felt the bed dip from someone—a slight person—slowly sitting down next to him—and the distinct crinkling of a paper bag.

Sirius lifted his head.

Regulus was sitting on the bed next to him, looking as tired and weary as his elder brother felt, a mirror image of his downcast mood—and holding in his hand the largest almond croissant Sirius had ever seen.

"You look like you need this," Reg said, quietly.

Very slowly—it took a lot of effort—Sirius sat up in bed. He reached out, fingers trembling, and took the pastry out of Regulus's outstretched hand—stared down at it as a shipwrecked sailor might look at a barrel of fresh water.

"Oh, thank _God_."

The first bite gave him the same feeling as chocolate after a Dementor attack—sweet marzipan filling, one of the greatest flavors he knew, surrounded by flaky layers of what probably amounted to baked butter—and a warmth spread in his chest that had nothing to do with the sugar. The second bite was slightly too large, but the bitter taste of the potion was starting to recede, and Sirius felt that if he choked and died now, something in life would've been worthwhile.

"I told you—" He sprayed crumbs on his brother and swallowed. "Wasn't it—the best brioche you've ever had?"

"It was very good," Regulus smiled, watching his brother wolf it down with gusto. "But the ones we ate in Liège were better."

Sirius, still chewing, shook his head.

"No—that was Belgium. This shop's run by a French woman. They invented them, they do them best." He snatched the crinkly bag from Regulus's hands, pulled out what was left. "Were you saving this?"

He did not wait for Regulus to answer him before biting into the macaroon. His brother tried and failed to give him a severe look.

"I _was—"_ He couldn't help but smile as Sirius emptied the rest of the bag into his mouth. "We're having roast beef for supper, you know."

It was Sirius's favorite, but he refused to return the timid smile. Refreshed by the sustenance and the possibility of news, he pulled his legs up and crossed them, Indian-style, on the bed.

"So—" He leaned forward and shot a dark look at the door. "What's the, er—mood on the ground, as it were?"

"Mother has Kreacher tidying your flat." Sirius groaned loudly. "He says he found rat droppings in the corner. Have you _ever_ cleaned this place?"

"What about the _Lord of the Manor_?" Sirius asked, ignoring the mild rebuke from Regulus. "Is he still skulking about?"

"Father returned to Grimmauld Place—" Regulus must've seen the hopeful look on his brother's face. "—He says he'll be back for supper."

Sirius leaned back on the headboard of the bed and stared, moodily, into the fireplace.

"Great. Gives us plenty of time to plan how we're going to poison his food."

He felt his little brother's pointed gaze on his face and kept staring into the fireplace. It would have felt far more satisfying brooding if it were actually lit—he felt like an idiot staring at the empty grate.

"Father's got something on you, hasn't he?" the younger boy asked, quietly. His brother let out a loud guffaw.

"What do _you_ think?" Sirius asked, his voice heavy with sarcasm. "You think I would have let him dress me down, completely _humiliate_ me like that if he _didn't_?" When his brother did not reply he continued, angrily, "A word of advice, Regulus—if you should ever make the supreme mistake of _pissing_ that man off, do not give him three years to think on it."

"What happened?" Regulus asked, anxiously.

"What _didn't_ happen? The high point of the audience was when I thought he was going to throw me off the balcony," Sirius growled with frustration. "For our father, revenge is apparently akin to a fine vintage of port—time elapsed does not mellow the bouquet."

"I _did_ warn you—"

"You told me he was upset, you didn't tell me he was an enraged manticore!" Sirius exclaimed, indignantly, waving his arms about. "I've never seen him like that—I really thought he might pitch me over. It was as if—"

"—You took away his firstborn child?" Regulus finished for him, quietly. Sirius dropped his arms back on the comforter with a soft thump.

"'The child upon whom he bestowed his very name' is how he put it, actually. Much more elegant." He gave his little brother a chagrined look. "I admit it—you were right. I guess I didn't quietly slip into the night."

The two of them sat in silence—but the quiet between them was a comfortable one. Regulus pulled his feet up on the bed as well, leaned back on the headboard next to his brother, hugging his knees.

"What did _she_ say when I walked out?" Sirius asked, after a while, anxious for a change of subject—even if he knew he wouldn't like the answer to this question.

"She…" Regulus hesitated. "She asked what he thought he was doing."

Sirius picked a croissant flake off the upholstery and let out an exhausted little laugh.

"And how did _he_ reply?"

"Erm…" His younger brother looked mildly embarrassed to admit it. "He said he was finally—taking a firm hand with you, like Mother always wanted him to." Regulus's mouth twitched at the expression on his brother's face, and he continued, boldly, "I thought she might kiss him when he said that."

"You just made the worst thing I've ever heard even more revolting." His younger brother was laughing now. He picked up a pillow and hit Regulus on the shoulder. "It is not funny, runt."

"It is, a little—" Regulus smothered a grin. "'May I—please have my wand back—Father?'" he imitated, in a low, simpering voice. Sirius glared hotly at him. "How did he even get it from you in the first place?"

"I dropped it in shock when he told me he hadn't cut me out of his will." Regulus's smile drooped. The two brothers stared at each other, both clearly uneasy at this new information.

"So it's true? You're still Father's heir?"

"Guess so." Regulus stared into the empty grate as well. Sirius didn't know what to make of the look on his younger brother's face. "You—seemed less shocked by that than I was."

"They didn't—I don't know if you've noticed—" There was a small trace of humor in Regulus's voice. "But they haven't _quite_ gotten over you leaving."

"Yeah, I'm starting to get that impression," Sirius said, sarcastically—but his sarcasm was blunted, somewhat. "Have they been like this all the time since I left?"

"Not—exactly." Regulus ducked his head a bit. His brother stretched his arms up and rested them behind his head against the headboard.

"Lord, I should have taken you with me," he murmured, casually.

"You _know_ I would never have gone."

They both stared at the stone fireplace now—the product of their mother's impeccable taste and even more impeccable skills with a wand. Sirius noticed, for the first time since he'd woken up this morning that there was an intricate serpentine pattern woven into the woodwork. For some reason it didn't bother him so much.

"Yeah…I know."

The two brothers sat, side-by-side, each lost in their thoughts. The heavy weight on Sirius's chest was still there, but it somehow it seemed a little easier to bear, now.

"Sirius?"

"…Yeah?"

He felt Regulus shift on the bed next to him, just a little.

"Are you angry with me?"

Slowly, Sirius turned his head—he found that his brother was already looking up at him. Regulus's eyes were fixed intently on Sirius—he stared back into them.

They were large and brown—he was the only one in their family who did not have the 'Black eyes'—that unusual shade of gray, one of the many highly prized Black traits he, Sirius, had so frequently been told he was lucky to have been born with. Regulus had inherited the dark eyes of their McMillan grandmother, and when he had been a little boy Sirius had enjoyed teasing him for it, saying they were like a cow's.

Staring down at his little brother now, it occurred to him that that had been rather cruel. Regulus had taken it to heart—he always did, especially then.

 _"_ _Of course I'm angry with you."_

 _Ten-year-old Sirius Black folded his arms in front of his wiry chest and slouched into the heavy covers of the four-poster in the large bedroom at the top of Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place. He rolled out of the eye line of the much smaller eight-year-old standing at the foot of the bed. "Now go away!"_

 _"_ _But I said I was sorry—"_

 _Sirius bolted upright and glowered down at his little brother, fiercely._

 _"_ _All you had to do was tell them you didn't know where I was," he said glowering over the edge of the bed. "And of course you didn't—"_

 _"_ _I_ did _know, though!" Regulus replied, voice shrill, and he jumped up on the foot of the bed. "And I couldn't lie to Father—"_

 _"_ _Why not?" his older brother sniffed, casting his younger brother a look of utmost scorn, impressive for his age. The older of the two scooted down the bed, away from Regulus. "I do it all the time. It's easy."_

 _"_ _But he catches you most of the time, and then he gets_ more _angry," Regulus looked down at the silk coverlet and trace the heraldic shield pattern stitched into it with his finger. "With me he can always tell."_

 _"_ _So get better at it, Reggie!" Sirius said, momentarily forgetting that he was annoyed with Regulus in the wake of this exasperating and perplexing excuse. He flung one of the decorative pillows onto the floor. He had never been able to understand why the things that he found so easy were such a trial for his younger brother._

 _Was Reg just that thick, or did he enjoy being a tattle?_

 _"_ _You shouldn't have wandered into Muggle London, anyway—"_

 _"_ _You could have come,_ too _, if you weren't such a—" The older boy flung himself violently on top of the bed and let out a loud sigh. He grinned at the ceiling at the memory. "—It was great, anyway."_

 _"_ _Mother says it's dirty and full of common people," Regulus recited, dutifully. Sirius blew a raspberry._

 _"_ _Shows what she knows. It's fun and exciting—" Sirius sighed, already bored again. "And then I had to come back_ here _."_

 _"…_ _What did he say?"_

 _"_ _No tea, no supper, no leaving my room until I tell Mother 'I'm sorry'," he listed, dully. Sirius flung a few more cushions on the floor. He thought he might stamp on them a bit to give Kreacher something to do—of course that dirty old house-elf had to catch him as he was shimmying up the drain pipe to get into his room. "Guess I'm not leaving until Hogwarts, then—"_

 _Regulus looked up at him, nervously—screwing up his courage to do something exceedingly rare—push back on his older brother._

 _"_ _I think you should just say you're sorry, Sirius."_

 _"_ _I don't want to and I'm not!" He screwed up his face in obstinacy. "And I thought I told you to go away."_

 _"_ _Sirius—"_

 _"_ _If you can't even lie for me, what kind of a brother are you, anyway?" Sirius said, in a sneer that was very much in imitation of their father._

 _The pair of wide brown eyes planted above the slightly freckled nose widened._

 _"_ _So you are—angry, then?" Regulus said, in a diminished voice, like a crushed flower._

 _"_ _That's what I said, didn't I?" Sirius replied, coldly—and then Reggie began to blink quickly, make whimpering noise in the back of his throat, and Sirius felt his annoyance evaporate, a vague sense of having done something wrong taking its place. Now he was ashamed of himself._

 _He crawled down the bed to where his brother sat, rubbing his eyes with the back of his robes. Even at eight Regulus knew that crying was not acceptable for a Black man._

 _"_ _Come here," Sirius said, gruffly. Regulus blinked up at him, at the outstretched arms of the still-sullen older brother he hero-worshipped so. "I said, come here. I'm not angry, alright, runt?"_

 _"_ _Really?" Regulus's tears were flowing wildly, now, and he crawled into his brother's rather gruff hug._

 _"_ _Yes—only you better stop crying, Regulus," he said, smiling. "You know Mother doesn't approve of tears."_

 _"_ _Or embracing," Regulus said, rather guiltily, into Sirius's shirtfront. "I'll sneak you up something to eat later, I promise."_

 _He pulled away from his brother, those large brown eyes more cow-like than ever—but full of conviction. He smirked and tousled Reg's hair._

 _"_ _That'd be alright, except you'll get in trouble, too."_

Ten years later, those eyes—Gran's eyes, so much warmer than his or their parents—looked exactly the same to his brother. And in that moment, like the clear ringing of a bell—the answer to the question his mind could not stop circling back around to.

Regulus.

 _Regulus_ had gotten him into this. He was the reason for all of it—the simple act of his brother coming to Sirius for help—reaching out desperately across the great divide—had been the door through which their parents had reentered his life and, in their characteristic brisk, oppressive style, upended everything in the space of half a day.

Regulus—the second-born son. The spare.

He looked down at his younger brother, still staring up at him—his face impassive, controlled—not close to tears at all, watchful. He was waiting for an answer to his question. Sirius studied Regulus, really examined his brother for the first time since he had opened the door and found him, half-dead, lying bleeding on the grimy mat at the front of the flat.

This was a Regulus Black hardened by seven years in Slytherin, by a year and a half as a Death Eater—his gaunt face still so painfully young, no longer the innocent child for whom displeasing his parents had been the greatest cause for fear possible. He looked as though he had not slept well in weeks—and considering he'd stolen dark magic from the most evil wizard who had ever lived and nearly died in the attempt, that shouldn't have come as a shock to Sirius. But it _was_ shocking. He had never thought he'd see Regulus like this.

He'd never thought about his brother as much as he ought to have.

He hadn't been thinking of Regulus this morning, as he replayed the events that had lead him here—had spent no time considering how he would have felt if Regulus's body had not been moving when he had found it, and that would have made all the difference. If Regulus had died, his mother would not be fifteen feet away from him now, redecorating the Muggle flat he'd been renting for over a year in green silk and damask.

But if Regulus had died—Regulus would be dead.

"Of course I'm not angry with you." Regulus's face betrayed no emotions—he found himself envying his younger brother his fleeting displays of ironclad Black self-possession. It was something he, Sirius, had never gotten the knack of. "I told you I was proud of you for what you've done, and I meant it."

"I know, but I meant about—"

"It's not your fault our father is _threatening_ me, Regulus," Sirius said, with a touch of impatience. "It's my own for being a bloody idiot—and as for our mother…" He caught the look of reproach and tempered himself. "Who can even _begin_ to explain why that woman acts the way she does?"

Regulus did not attempt to answer a question that was, of course, purely rhetorical.

"I know you were only trying to protect them," Sirius continued, softly. "Rather like trying to protect a pair of _chimaeras_ , in my opinion, but I gather that you don't really know the difference—"

His brother leaned over and wrapped his arms around Sirius, and the words died in his throat.

It was a very awkward, stiff embrace—like one from someone who had fallen out of the practice of it, or has never been properly taught in the first place. Either description could have fit Regulus. Sirius was so taken off-guard by it that for a moment he froze, unsure of what to do. He patted his brother weakly on the back.

"Careful," he said, with a little humor. "You don't want to get—caught in such an undignified state."

The younger boy shifted slightly and—even more surprising—squeezed harder.

"Come on, Reg, get—" He made a half-hearted attempt to push him off, but his younger brother rather stubbornly clung on. Sirius looked down at his chest bemusedly. "Alright, if you want to take the risk of being called a sentimental fool again, on—on your head be it."

He tried to think of the last time Regulus had hugged him. It had been largely frowned upon in their family, like most things that made human life worth living—though of course they'd had governesses who broken the rule and kissed and hugged them (out of their mother's sight—if she wasn't going to do that to her sons, nobody else would be allowed to). Regulus was such a good child that even though he'd welcomed such displays of affection from his older brother, he almost never initiated them.

And here he was, at eighteen, doing something that, if it was not acceptable as a child, was certainly not now. Well, if Regulus needed it, Sirius supposed it couldn't hurt. He ignored the burning in his own chest.

"Lily told me that she actually caught Mum—hugging _Dad_ in here last night," he said, after a while. "And that she was—crying, of all things. She must be going mad—"

"I believe it," Regulus said, very quietly. "She cried for three days when you left."

The burning sensation seemed to have left Sirius's chest and risen—he could feel it in his throat, ears, cheeks—eyes.

"Now why—" He heard his own voice catch and knew what was about to happen, but it made him no less eager to stop it. "Why did you have to—to go and tell me…a thing like that?"

His shoulders began to shake.

"It's alright—"

"No, it is _not_ bloody alright—" He said, and if he could tell what was about to happen, how much more obvious must it have been for Regulus? "It's the least alright thing in the—"

"—I don't mind, really," his younger brother murmured, quietly.

"But I—" he protested, in a strangled voice. " _I_ do…"

It was too late, though—hot tears were flowing down his face, unabated, and Regulus hugged him tighter, made it easier for his older brother to sob into his shoulder, release what he had been holding back so desperately in the other room—too proud to let his parents see, not strong enough to hide now. Three years of unexamined feelings, hurt and guilt had risen up from his stomach and he was now fighting with every ounce of strength he had not vomit them over his little brother.

Regulus didn't mind, though—he could tell, as he wrapped his own arms around his brother's slim torso. Regulus might've been the only other person who understood.

"It's just been—" He sucked in a breath that turned into a hiccough. "—Such a _shite_ day."

"I know," his brother replied, softly.

"You're having an even worse one," Sirius said, and his sob turned into a weak laugh. "Dad saying I'm 'useless' seems like a small thing compared to having flesh ripped out of your arm—"

"He didn't mean it," Regulus muttered into his shoulder.

"What, the Inferius?" He felt Regulus tremble—but not from tears, he was _laughing_. "Yeah, I'm sure it was just a love bite."

"He didn't, really, Sirius," Regulus's fingers curled around the fabric of the t-shirt. His brother snorted. "He's just angry."

"When I'm on my deathbed you'll still be defending him," he grumbled, half-heartedly, and he wiped his face on the back of his hand. "I don't know what's more perverse, the fact that our father is blackmailing me or the fact that you _guessed_ he was."

"I mean, it _was_ fairly obvious."

"Believe it or not, Reg—other peoples' fathers don't threaten to report their children to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement if they don't use the right fork at dinner."

"You're doing something illegal?" Regulus asked, passing over what his brother thought was an example of his rather acid wit. "And you let him _find out_?"

"I told you I was being thick!" Sirius released his brother—and Regulus let go as well, with obvious reluctance. "Let's see what the old man's given me, then."

Still on the bed, he reached over Regulus to the table where the letter that had come from him still lay, unopened. Next to it sat a fat, handsomely embossed leather-bound book. It was black, ancient, and Sirius could tell before he even picked it up that whatever its contents were, they would be intensely boring.

He picked up both the letter and book and settled back down next to Regulus, who was watching him with faint curiosity. Sirius tossed his letter onto the bed on the other side of him.

Expression cool, Sirius opened the book. A small piece of parchment, stuck in the front page, slid out. As he read the note, Sirius's scowl became more and more pronounced.

"His thirst for retribution knows no limits," he said, darkly, shoving the piece of parchment into his brother's hand. When Regulus looked down at it he found the Black family crest neatly printed at the top, in the familiar, even hand they both knew well, and the following:

 _Sirius,_

 _I thought about what we discussed this morning, and took the liberty of retrieving this from my study for you. I give you free reign to look into it at your own leisure. As I said, it is a complicated business, and not a pressing one for me at present—but I see no reason to deny_ _you_ _your chance at having nothing of mine when I die._

 _On a somewhat related note, there's been a long-standing dispute over who has claim to some opals of your Aunt Elladora's—Belvina Burke's daughter ended up with them but nobody seems to know why, and your Aunt Druella thinks Narcissa ought to be wearing them. I'm tired of hearing about it every time they call on us—look into the matter for me, will you?_

 _I look forward to conversing further with you on both of the above at your earliest convenience._

 _Your Father, affectionately,_

 _OAB_

"Over my corpse did he mean that 'affectionately'."

Regulus looked back up from the note to his brother, who was glowering at him in righteous indignation.

"What is the book he's given you?" he asked, handing the note back.

"' _Thee Magicke Lawe and Inheritance Practices of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black', written down in 1619 by Alphus Black, amended and codified in 1885 by Phineas Nigellus Black_ '," Sirius read from the front page, revolted, and he flipped to a random page and read a few lines. "It appears our great-great grandfather had it in mind to be both incomprehensible and dull when he compiled this."

"Did Father _really_ threaten to report you to the Ministry for something you've done?"

Sirius snapped the book shut and tossed it onto the floor of his room.

"No," he admitted grudgingly, looking back up at Regulus. "He threatened to tell our mother—which in this case is worse."

Casually, Sirius lifted his arms and stretched them above his head and out. He rested his left hand lightly on Regulus's shoulder. His younger brother did not comment on this—but he also did not raise his thin shoulder to push Sirius's hand off.

"What exactly did you do?"

"It's not 'did' as much as 'still doing'," Sirius said, evasively. "It doesn't matter—"

"If you don't trust me you can just say so," Regulus said, somewhat coldly. His brother gave him a wry smile.

"It's not a matter of trust—it's like I said to Remus, plausible deniability," Sirius grinned at him, half-heartedly—a lock of Regulus's hair had fallen into his eyes, and he blew it up with a huff. "If you don't know she can't force it out of you."

"I've gotten a lot better at lying," his little brother remarked, dryly. "I'm better at it than you are, now."

Something dark and cold flashed across his younger brother's pale face and he shivered.

"You're probably right." Sirius absently tapped his finger against Regulus's shoulder. "I'll tell you—eventually." Regulus sniffed. "I promise. You'll be impressed by it."

This didn't give his brother much comfort. He was staring, glassy-eyed, out the window of the bedroom—but Sirius did not think he was really seeing anything there. His mind was clearly elsewhere—in the cave where he and Kreacher had both nearly died, maybe, or somewhere else.

It was not a pleasant place, wherever it was.

"He's not going to find you, Regulus."

"The Dark Lord won't be fooled for long," said his younger brother, tiredly. "When he calls and I don't come, he'll suspect—and if he checks the cave, he'll know—it was me that took it."

"How can you be sure?"

"I left a note," Regulus admitted, quietly. Sirius sat up straighter and frankly goggled at his brother. "And I…signed it."

"You left him a signed _letter_?"

"I thought I was going to die!" Regulus said, softly. "And I wanted him to know it was me who did it, found out. I wanted him to know—what I really thought he was."

At the note of grim satisfaction in his younger brother's voice, Sirius relaxed and leaned back against the headboard.

"That was pretty ballsy of you, runt," Sirius remarked, with admiration. His brother shifted around, his ears turned pink. "Almost like a Gryffindor, in fact."

"Almost like _you,_ you mean," Regulus snorted, sliding down a little—a faint grin playing about his mouth.

"…What did the note say?"

"I'm not telling you." Regulus said, peevishly. His brother raised both eyebrows. "You'll only make fun of it."

"Must've been something really stupid, then." He poked at his younger brother's shoulder, an old trick meant to niggle at Reg. "I bet you drew the family crest at the bottom next to your name."

Regulus neither confirmed nor denied it. He suddenly seemed even more exhausted than his elder brother.

"You really don't mind that I'm staying here?"

"Merlin, no. You think I could handle _them two_ if you weren't?" Sirius asked, honestly jerking his free thumb towards the door. "You're the only thing keeping me sane right now, Reggie. I'd have flung _myself_ out that window otherwise."

Sirius realized, as he said the words—words meant to comfort his brother, an apology for all the ways that he was only realizing now he had so spectacularly failed Regulus—that they were true. That as much as Regulus was the reason so many of his old wounds had been painfully reopened—he was glad his brother was here, with him, now, in his dark bedroom, staring at their mother's handiwork in the wall and having this ridiculous conversation. Dumbledore had been right, at least, that this wasn't his younger brother's fault.

The thing Regulus was most guilty of was loving them all, the poor, soft idiot.

And he was glad the idiot was alive.

He looked over at said idiot to inform him of this fact, and he saw that the younger boy's eyes were closed.

"Well…at least one of us, eh?" Sirius said, watching his little brother doze with unmistakeable fondness. Regulus snored very softly. "I suppose you've earned it."

Regulus didn't answer him. Sirius rubbed his forehead with his left hand—there was still a dull ache, there—but his skull no longer felt like it was going to split open.

He suddenly remembered the letter. With his free hand (he couldn't move the other one now, it might disturb Reg—that was what he told himself, anyway), Sirius picked it up off the coverlet. When he recognized the handwriting on the outside and he tore it open, clumsily.

As Sirius's eyes slid across the page, took in the words from a person many miles away—and he felt a warmth in his chest like the sun breaking through the clouds, felt his courage rise at the comfort it instilled. There were people who had his back—in this room and elsewhere. They believed in him. His eyes grew wet again.

It would be alright, as Regulus had said.

His hand, still clutching the parchment, fell to his side on the bed. Other arm still slung around his brother's thin shoulder, he felt his hand relax, and after a minute of listening to Reg's gentle snoring, the elder of the two closed his own eyes.

That was how their mother found them a half-hour later when she came in to check why her youngest had not returned, per her instructions.

 _These_ were what her husband thought were no longer children? Walburga thought, as she approached the bed where her two sons slept, her sharp eyes taking in the full picture at once. If he could only see them now he would realize that, as usual, she knew better.

Regulus, breathing wheezy but even, had turned on his side and was using his elder brother's arm as a lopsided sort of cushion for his head. Arm pinned beneath the smaller boy, Sirius (still dressed so unfortunately) lay flat on his back, twitching every once in awhile, utterly undignified. It was amazing his loud snoring and thrashing had not woken the younger one. Regulus's face was slightly squashed against Sirius's shoulder, and the older brother did not even have the decency to roll away.

What a pair of little fools the two of them were, she thought, with exasperation. How had they even managed to fall asleep like that? They were a _pile_.

Clearly they couldn't be left to their own devices, that was certain.

She stooped over Regulus first, put a cool hand to his forehead—a slight fever. She looked down at her younger son—youngest of his cousins, so pale. Her eyes lingered on his face for a moment before trailing down to the arm now trapped beneath him. She pulled up his sleeve to check and recoiled from the sight of the ugly wound. Instantly Mrs. Black scolded herself for her squeamishness. She bent closer—anger very quickly overtook disgust at the sight. She found herself faintly alarmed at the strength of her emotions and tried to temper them.

No—It was a piece of flesh torn out of something of her own, Walburga reminded herself, and she had every right to be furious about it.

The witch pulled back and looked at his face again—peaceful in sleep, as peaceful as he'd been an infant. He was an easy child, even then. Her younger son had always been soft—compliant, biddable, done exactly as she told him—and she, his mother, had looked down on him for what she'd taken for a lack of spirit.

Grudgingly, she had to admit—perhaps Orion was right. Perhaps they _had_ underestimated him. She brushed his hair out of his face, absently—and vowed to keep a closer eye on him from now on, lest he get any more dangerous ideas—like the other one. As if even in sleep he knew where his mother's thoughts tended, Regulus turned his face into Sirius's shoulder, and he snorted.

Rolling her eyes, Walburga pulled down his sleeve again and walked briskly around the bed to check on her older son.

His forehead was, by contrast, cool, almost clammy. He was shivering slightly—of course being dressed so improperly didn't help. She traced a finger over the mark on his face—already fading. In a week he would be the handsome, spitting image of his father again.

Three years taken from her.

She had not stopped marveling at Orion's mastery—naturally, she would get to the bottom of how he'd done it—but for now it was enough to indulge in her triumph. How in Salazar Slytherin's name had she allowed her husband to convince her not to apparate to the West Country and drag him back _then_ , by his hair if necessary?

No matter. Like her grandfather always said—the stars had different plans for Sirius. She sat down on the bed and watched her firstborn sleep. She was already turning options over in her mind. A good marriage did seem the most expedient way to get him fully under control—a wife and children would keep him at home, not gallivanting about the country getting into trouble—and duels.

One thing was certain: she would not make the same mistake twice—she would not let him go again.

It was then she noticed the open letter lying on the bed next to her eldest. Unable to resist, Mrs. Black shot him a look—still dead to world—and then picked it up and smoothed it out. The handwriting was unmistakably girlish—her suspicion sufficiently roused, she narrowed her eyes and stared down at the page.

 _Dear Padfoot,_

 _How dare you? I am not just angry—I am livid. Remus came by this morning and passed on your message (he maintains he relayed it with utmost accuracy—how could you do that to poor Moony?) and my husband has been moping about the house ever since as though someone has died. I wish I were exaggerating. He won't shut up about you and how you hate him now. Is this what 5th and 6th year were like for you before I relented? I am almost sorry, Black._

 _If this is your idea of revenge I must tell you it is working. Potter made me listen to his seven point plan for how to win back your favor for a full hour. When I reminded him he is married to_ me _and not_ you _, he got very angry and shut himself up in the attic. Moony is trying to get him out of there right now._

 _We got Professor Dumbledore's far less cruel message, as well—however will we manage to keep all this a secret from Wormy? That's the part I'm least looking forward to. You know I detest lying—I'll be relying on you to come up with excuses, but I'll hate making them all the same. Of course I'll do it, this is too important. Does your new charge have a nickname we can use in mixed company? I hope he's feeling better._

 _James has managed to make me feel some guilt over you, as well (as if his wasn't bad enough!) He says I have to apologize to you for the things I said. I must admit, darling, when we became friends I never thought we'd be rowing about your mother. I swear I did not lie to you about what I saw—but James has made me see I don't know everything._

 _Please don't be mad at him, you know there are no secrets between us—he told me all about that night you showed up at his parents' after you ran away. He said it was the worst he's ever seen you, before or since. I never even suspected at school, you were always so brash about it all. You really shouldn't keep things hidden away like that. I really_ _am_ _certain she cares for you—there, I'm done! It's the last I'll say about it—for now._

 _You left your cloak and those robes here. They truly are beautiful—their original owner has exquisite taste (he's also even better looking than you, I'm sorry to say). I had a thought: my mother taught me to sew—I could pull out the stitching and put red and gold in instead. Or would you prefer I sew on lion patches? I thought you might want to make them your own._

 _Please, please come and have dinner with us as soon as you are able to get away. We have something very important we want to ask you, and I fear my husband will take to walking about the village square naked like St. Francis if you do not come._

 _Lots of love,_

 _Lily_

 _PS. I think the baby is very upset its father and future godfather are fighting, because since writing the above I have been over the toilet for an hour. Oh—have I said too much? We love you!_

She stared down at the letter for a very long time—the words from this near-stranger sinking slowly into her mind like a pebble dropped to the bottom of the sea, words of people and events about which she knew nothing—and words of herself.

She looked back up at Sirius, and realized, with a jolt, that there were tear-marks around his eyes.

Walburga placed the letter back on the bed, exactly where she had found it—right next to his hand, now clenched in his sleep—always ready for a fight, she thought, wryly, stroking his cheek. He mumbled something unintelligible and leaned into her hand.

She disliked being caught off-guard—and that girl had done so, with her suggestions and inferences about things of which she knew nothing. Utter presumption, of course, but still—Walburga would take what she had gleaned from the letter and ponder its meaning later. Some of it might have value for her schemes.

The witch rose, back straight, and glided elegantly over to the closet. Mrs. Black opened it and looked at the robes hanging there, critically, then pulled out a handsome set with dark gray detailing and neatly laid them out on the only chair in the room.

The message would, she could only assume, be clear.

"The young masters can sleep a bit longer, Kreacher," she informed the house-elf, waiting for her dutifully outside the door to the bedroom. "Wake them up for supper in twenty minutes, and _don't_ let Sirius dawdle. I expect the goblin-wrought silver on the table, as there's nothing suitable _here_ for us to eat off of."

The elf bowed and followed his mistress into the living room, where a magnificent walnut dining table—completely at odds with the rest of the 'decor' in the room—had already been set out for dinner. Walburga looked around the room, exerted every effort to suppress how much it revolted her.

Could they really have Christmas dinner in this place?

She supposed she didn't have much of a choice. And anyway—there were still a few weeks left—plenty of time for her to work her magic and make it suitable for her family.

They were, after all, Blacks.

 **The adventures of the Black Family are TO BE CONTINUED in**

 **'** **Black Mask'**

* * *

 _Thank you all for reading! I have enjoyed your comments and hope to see you in the sequel_ — _a lot more adventures and intrigues for the Blacks as they embark upon the strange new world of witness protection, Dumbledore style. Will Regulus ever get to leave Sirius's apartment? Will Orion follow through on his threat to tell his wife about their son's illegal activities? And how awkward is Christmas dinner going to be? All these questions and more will be answered in **Black Mask.**_


End file.
